


The Guardian

by HumblePeasant



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age 4 - Fandom, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bad Flirting, Blood and Violence, Dark Thoughts, Dragon Age 4 speculations, Eventual Smut, Everyone is Flawed, F/M, Female Lavellan/? - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Dorian Pavus/Lavellan, My First Work in This Fandom, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Self-Hatred, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Solas' own spies spy on Solas, Spy inception, and my own crappy art, copious amounts of hurt, elves doing stupid dangerous things, grumpy elves, lots of drinking & wizard pipe smoking, main character is my pretend DA4 protagonist, really slow plot build, the long haul - Freeform, this story has alternate choices, timeline is going through DAI and beyond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2019-08-06 16:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 89
Words: 357,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant
Summary: [Felt like the weight of the world was on my shouldersShould I break or retreat at every turnFacing the fear that the truth, I discoverNo telling how, all this will work outBut I’ve come too far to go back now.]('Freedom' by Anthony Hamilton, Elayna Boynton)-------------------------------She has seen heroes come and go. She has fought beside a few and watched them change the world. From Fen'harel and his Rebellion to the Inquisitor of the current age. She watched them work together to save it from destruction...only to find it was a temporary fix. She's ready to try now. It probably won't go well. She has seen how it ends. She just knows it can't end the way it did last time...so she'll try.





	1. Into the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a lurker forever but I decided to come out and post this old thing because I'd like to get something out before DA4 is announced and all of this becomes irrelevant and abandoned. I don't have a beta so it's probably going to be rough...thanks for reading anyway.  
> I'm firing from the hip to see where this thing goes. Bear with me
> 
> Italics typically denotes speaking in a different language (too lazy/not enough time to translate)

_"I cannot watch as he tears this world down."_ Yrja cast her hood down as she stepped back into the sanctuary. _"He is not thinking past his current motives. The consequences in the long run. He will die or be killed and what...leave the world to languish in even more suffering than before?"_ Thenon, who had been waiting for her to return, stood up from his crouch.  
  
_"Has he let on anything?"_ They walked down a dimly lit hall and emerged into the study.  
  


_"I overheard his plans regarding the Evanuris. But he has said nothing of those he has for the rest of the world."_ Yrja chewed her lip angrily while she went over some of her notes. _"The war that comes will be pandemic - a tide that swallows us all. Even the Inquisitor might not be enough, for I fear even he is running out of options._

__  
_"You think the Inquisitor will rise against Fen'harel? They are friends."_ Thenon frowned, casting a glance around the area.  
  
_"I cannot speak on the Inquisitor's behalf. I wasn't there in the Crossroads with them a year ago, but by the sounds of it they did part on relatively good terms. Yet friends may still stand on opposite sides of a battlefield, you know this. Either way, I've finally arranged something with the Tevinter, Dorian Pavus."_ She glanced over at the time candle in the corner. Such primitive measures this world had been weathered to. _"I need to go. My time has come."_ Thenon blinked and reached out to stop her, looking confused.  
  
_"What madness is this? We were in this together, what is going on Yrja?"_ She smiled sadly.  
  
_"I'm afraid this is where our paths part. I have found my replacement. I believe she will lead you and the others to a more favourable future. May we meet in another life, Thenon."_ The other elf looked as though he wanted to argue, but then he resigned to a solemn nod.  
  
_"You've figured it out then. You're going to stop Fen'harel."_ It was a whisper that barely reached her as she raised her hood and activated the Eluvian in their hold.  
  
_"I am going to try."_ Then she stepped through the mirror.

  


 

On the other side, night had fallen. The arid coolness of a desert greeted her. Yrja turned to the Eluvian as the surface stilled. She could see Thenon on the other side moving around, though it was blurred. _Ir abelas, old friend_. She raised her hand and clenched it into a fist, shattering the Eluvian. Thenon would burn down the sanctuary on the other side and her job was to destroy the gateway. Fen'harel had trusted his closest, but he in turn had broken her trust. They had followed him for so long, rebelled against the Evanuris at his side. His followers had known that his plan to rebuild the world was extreme and that there would be casualties along the way. But then the Inquisition happened and it was better than his scheme. Yin Lavellan was kind and intelligent and his inner circle had proved to be some of the most respectable people she had seen in all her years living in this world. She thought that Solas would see them and their potential and ask for their help.  
  
He never did and now she was taking it into her own hands. Her people were a minority, but they were strong.  
  
The single bridge into Minrathous was daunting, but she'd seen more secluded places in the time of Arlathan. Sneaking across the bridge and through its gates under guise of feather was a breeze. Then, she cast off feather for a cloak woven of magic that rendered her invisible only to those that knew what to look for. And then she followed the directions Dorian had given her to the place they were to meet.  
  
The massive metropolis was...still uncomparable to Arlathan or any cities in existence during the Elvhen Empire, but for being human built, it was impressive. These quicklings had come a ways from when they had been nothing but barbaric tribes.  
  
She did not waste time ogling the architecture and found her destination in a splendid estate surrounded by tall white walls. Immediately, she felt uneasy. If Dorian had been experimenting from here, she hoped he had remained undetected.  
  
Yrja slipped on through past the guards at the gate, reminding herself to tell Dorian he needed to set wards around his place if he wanted to keep spies out. She quickly slipped into the white-stoned halls and immediately picked up on conversation, though it was faint and far away. She followed the voices through extravagant corridors and chambers, glad that the place was utterly dead at night. She was also glad to see no signs of slaves, though that was probably too good to be true for a Magister.  
  
Finally, the elf rounded a corner to see a large open balcony whose view was to die for. A massive moon illuminated the marble, giving it the image of standing on the surface of the moon itself. Long sheer curtains decorated the entrance of the balcony and exotic plants in expensive pots dotted every corner. At the other side of the balcony, two men stood—the source of the noise. One, she recognised as Dorian Pavus himself, dressed in finery to match the small palace, and the other was a man whose face she could not see as it was obscured by a hood.  
  
"I believe our guest has arrived safe and sound," Dorian suddenly said, voice rising. Yrja stepped through the drapes to join them in the moonlight, letting her spell unravel.  
  
"I see you've been practicing the detection spell?" she said, casting her hood down.  
  
"Indeed! I imagine you think me an imbecile having not placed a ward or more competent guards at the gate?" She raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I see your point, but if I had been an assassin—" she gestured from herself to him, indicating the short distance. He waved her off.  
  
"I detected you as soon as you reached the inside. I'd plenty of time to figuratively arm myself against figurative intruders." The man in the dark cloak made a noise in his throat and shook his head.  
  
"Bloody cocky, this one." Dorian smiled crookedly. "You've yet to introduce us, _vhenan_." Yrja's eyebrows shot up into her hair.  
  
"Judging by her expression, she needs none now," the Magister mused.  
  
"Perhaps, but I still have no idea who she is," the Inquisitor sighed. Dorian snapped his fingers.  
  
"This is Yrja. She's an agent of our dear Apostate-turned-God." The Inquisitor straightened to his full height and raised a hand, slowing removing his hood so that he could look at her. He was a handsome elf, strong and broad and tall. There was a single scar that stemmed from the corner of his mouth nearly up to his cheekbone and another across his nose. The Inquisitor was as handsome as he was fierce.  
  
"It is good to finally meet you, Inquisitor," she said, inclining her head.  
  
"Funny, because until the other day, I didn't know you existed. And yet it seems you and Dorian have been in contact for quite some time," he said, not bothering to mask irritation. Dorian shuffled, looking guilty.  
  
" _She_ contacted _me_ ," he argued.  
  
"How much does he know?" she asked the Tevinter.  
  
"Who are you, really? Dorian says you're as old as Sol—Fen'harel himself," Yin said, eyes flashing. Yrja glanced at Dorian, who she had never really explained her background to in detail. "Do you know Abelas? Are you one of the sentinels who guarded the Temple of Mythal?" Dorian _tsked_.  
  
"If you keep asking questions, she will never be able to answer," he quipped. Yin glared at her, waiting. She found a pit of ice had formed in her stomach.  
  
"I was one of few who watched over Solas as he slept." She walked over to the balustrade to mask her nervousness. "No, I was not one of Abelas' sentinels. Did Solas mention any of his agents, ever?"  
  
"He mentioned spies in the Inquisition...and those involved in leading Corypheus to the orb." She nodded. Yin gasped.  
  
"No. You? You're responsible for letting that monster get his hands on that relic?" Even Dorian remained silent, as this was a revelation to him as well. "Then...then..."  
  
"In a way, it's all my fault. Granted, if not me, someone else would have done it." She looked over at the two men. "But I still could have taken the orb somewhere safe, away from him. I would have been hunted, but I could have prevented—" she broke off, then turned to face them again, determination rising in her gut. "We are doomed in this time. Solas will release the Evanuris. He has not taken into account the hundreds of elves that wear their vallaslin and will flock to them without question. He may have them now, but there will be a fissure that he does not see--at least not until it's too late. There will be war driven by vengeance of the Evanuris and blood will flow thicker than when Falon'din went mad. And Solas believes he can stop them alone." Yin's eyes had closed and hard lines had formed on his face.  
  
"Alone. As he thinks he must do with everything," Yin remarked bitterly. "Oh, Solas..."  
  
"Which is why Yrja is going to sabotage him and return to the past," Dorian chimed in. Yin stared agape at them both. He stuck a finger in his ear, twisted it around, and then blinked.  
  
"What? What good would that do? She goes back but we'll still be here! Remember that one time we time travelled in Redcliffe? Leliana said it was real for her--it will be real for us!" Dorian looked affronted.  
  
"I've done copious amounts of research on time travel since then. I even recovered some old notes from my time with Alexius! I have this figured out, _amatus_. Go on, tell me I'm the best." Yin swore and pinched the bridge of his nose. Yrja rolled her shoulders, turning to face them.  
  
"What Solas plans to do regarding the Veil will weaken him," she said, "If I interfere, his spell will fail, he will be weakened, and perhaps then he will listen. But if Dorian's new time spell works correctly, this timeline will cease to exist and it will be like hitting reset on everything." Yin looked at his lover who gave him a reassuring smile.  
  
"And what do you plan to do once you've...gone back?" Yrja gave him a wry grin.  
  
"I'm going to steal Solas' orb, of course. I will find Dorian in the other timeline, request his help, and with the orb I plan on preventing him from coming into the power that he stole."  
  
"Stole?" Yin asked. _Well, forgot about that._  
  
"He...took on Mythal's power. Potentially also Urthemiel, but it's possible that Mythal put the soul somewhere safe before that happened," she decided to admit. "Which is another matter I will tend to when I go back. When he wakes up, he will have nothing but his own cunning...which is dangerous on its own, but...I have plans." Yin nodded thoughtfully and she knew she was slowly winning him over.  
  
"Do you know him? Solas? Were you friends, ever?" That was an odd turn in topic.  
  
"There is a possibility he may know my face, but he does not know my name."  
  
"That doesn't seem possible for someone that watched over him for hundreds of years," Yin said.  
  
"There were followers, and then there were his friends. Fen'harel fell unconscious after he constructed the Veil but he did not hand pick who would watch him. He trusted us."  
  
"Then are you a spy? What purpose do you serve in his ranks?" Yin asked.  
  
"I serve no purpose to anyone but myself. I joined him during the rebellion against the Evanuris because I agreed they needed to be taken down. It is no more than that," she sighed. "And now, he must be stopped." A grim silence weighed with sorrow hung in the air.  
  
"You won't hurt him, will you?" Yrja and Dorian both looked at him. Yin's eyes were filled with worry, which was not what she had expected from the man whose entire life had been turned upside down. "His plans may be terrible, but Solas is my friend. My brother. He's...lost. I want to help him see, not to further drive into his head that our world is not worth saving." Yrja's face softened at the young elf.  
  
"I promise I won't hurt him." And that was a promise she would have kept on her own, regardless.

\-----------------------------

Days later, Dorian emerged from his massive study bearing a smile that stretched ear to ear. After some gloating and stroking of his ego, he finally explained that he had perfected the spell and had managed to confine it to a disc the size of her hand. It was made of a strange black stone that reflected everything in it and yet made it feel as though she were looking into oblivion—which was fitting, considering its purpose.  
  
"You, with this, will need to hold it near...let's just say wherever Solas is concentrating. The closer the better, as it needs to be super-charged by magic. The disc will do the rest," he'd told her before running off to find Yin. She stayed in the gardens, probing the precious artefact that would change everything. The morning after she'd arrived, others had too and she had not been determined to meet any of them. All were former Inquisition members. She did not trust any of them, but she did trust Dorian and so she left him to describe the plan to the others. She was not sure how much any of them could help, but perhaps he was simply warning them—preparing them for what was to come. She would not fail. Could not fail.  
  
Come that next evening, she would journey to a temple hidden in the desert of Tevinter where Solas would tear down the Veil. Until then, she had only a few hours to steel herself for the monumental task of crossing the Dread Wolf himself. She didn't want to think about what would happen if she was caught.  
  
Her privacy was shortlived, as a servant summoned her to meet with Yin again. He and everyone else had gathered to recall as much detail as they could of things that had happened during the time of the Inquisition. The dwarf from Kirkwall, Varric Tethras was his name, sat nearby creating a transcript for her. She noticed a woman, beautiful and dark skinned, sitting on a chaise nearby observing her openly. When Yrja engaged her with her eyes, the woman opened her mouth.  
  
"My dear, let us say you are successful and Dorian's magic doesn't turn you to vapour—when Solas in the past sees you, as I imagine he might, will he recognise you? Aside from your armour, your kind seems to be...distinct." Yrja remained stony-faced.  
  
"Physique is easily masked by proper attire," Dorian interjected. Yrja shrugged.  
  
"I have not seen him in months, either way," she said, forcing one of the companions to stop their account of things. "But, as long as I have known him, I have shorn my hair—and my eyebrows. To avoid problems in battle. Recently, I allowed it to grow back, more specifically for this purpose." She turned her attention back to Warden Rainier and nodded for him to resume his story.  
  
She sat through hours of stories, but it was necessary. Especially when it came time to hear out Yin's account. She hung onto every word as though Master Tethras wasn't writing it all down for her.  
  
Something particularly interesting that she'd never heard had her holding her hand up at one point.  
"—The foci. Its destruction may be why he sought out Mythal," she realised. Everyone was silent.  
  
"Do you think that if you steal it, he will go after her anyway?" Yin asked, following a different line of thought.  
  
"I...I don't know. But that is why I plan on reaching her before he does." Varric leaned back in his chair with a groan.  
  
"Why did I ever agree to this," he mumbled. "The more you all go on about the past and what's yet to happen, the more it seems insane and impossible."  
  
"Yet we lived through the insane and the impossible before, old friend," Yin said with a smile. "'Sides, if this fails, we will continue to search for a way to change Solas' mind."  
  
"Last I heard, he was bringing the Veil down tomorrow." A heavy silence fell over them all.  
  
"The Veil is already threadbare. He is only speeding up the inevitable because he knows there are armies out to get him," Yrja said.  
  
"Do you think that's why he had us activate those artefacts all those years ago? To buy us more time before it all...comes crashing down?" Yin asked, eyes widening in realisation. Yrja nodded.  
  
"But instead of finding a gentler way of dissolving it, it seems he wants to yank it down. He's been pushed into desperation. I believe he wants to reach the other Evanuris before they are freed by other causes," she said. Yin shook his head sorrowfully.  
  
"When you return to the past...we must all help him see the folly of his ways," he said. The others, surprisingly, nodded their determination.  
  
"I will not fail," Yrja said. "There is no room for it. If it costs me my life, so be it, but I will not give up." Most of them seemed reassured, except for Vivienne, the Spymaster, and the ex-Commander of the Inquisition.  
  
"Is there anything else?" Yin asked, eager to supply her with any information. He had quickly warmed up to her, which had been a surprise. She had always imagined him as a grim, humourless leader. But surrounded by his friends she could see that she had been completely wrong. The grim face was the mask he wore as the Inquisitor.  
  
"Briala," she suddenly remembered. "She had control of the Eluvians before?" Yin nodded. "And you met her?"  
  
"At the Winter Palace, yes," he said. "Why?"  
  
"I'm considering all options. I'll need to reach her before Fen'harel overrides the network." Yrja looked at Varric and nodded for him to add that to the transcript.  
  
"D'ya think it'll hurt?" Everyone turned their heads to the young elf sitting perched in a chair. Sera, she recalled. "You said it'd be like closin' our eyes, Inky."  
  
"There is nothing to fear," Dorian pitched in. "It will be like waking up from a dream and none of us will remember anything that happened. Except, you know, for Yrja."  
  
"But...will I still be me?" There was real fear in the young girl's eyes. Just as there was weariness written in all of their features. They had been fighting hard for the last few years.  
  
"If the Evanuris get out, no one will be the same," Yrja said, drawing their attention. "Trust us when we say tampering with time is the better option." Sera didn't look appeased, but she fell silent, avoiding eye contact with everyone. If anything, their doubt became Yrja's strength. She would not fail them.


	2. Into the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is short. It just breaks off well and the transition into the next chapter is...good? I think.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: italics denote either a different language being spoken or an internal thought.

Armed with the past and the tool that would take her back, Yrja finally arrived at the temple where Solas would go through with his foolish plan. The place—in fact, the entire area around the sandstone-coloured temple was thick with magic. The Veil was so thin she found that she could sense spirits gathering just on the edge, curious. She pressed her hand to her waist where Dorian's tool was hidden safely. Inert until exposed to raw, powerful magic.  
  
Sentinels, of course, had been stationed all over the place. She was glad to see that her spy, of sorts, had posted himself in the place they had planned. Yrja walked on through without being questioned. She steeled herself as she passed through sandy halls, feeling the Fade pressing through the Veil like cobwebs the deeper she went. The temple once belonged to Elgar'nan. She had never liked the man. Then again, none of the Evanuris had been particularly likeable. Cunning and often clever with words, but out of the view of the public they had proved to be power hungry and greedy.  
  
_"Yrja?"_ She spun at the voice, already paranoid. Her hand had instinctively flown to the dagger sheathed at the small of her back. She removed it at once, feeling foolish as Hurian approached her. He was one of Fen'harel's most loyal and not at all a part of her plan. _"I haven't seen you in months! I thought you'd miss this."_  
  
_"Of course I'd be here."_ She'd nearly spoken in Common, having gotten so used to it recently. _"My mission simply took a slightly longer time than expected."_ Hurian nodded and smiled.  
  
_"Well, Fen'harel is nearly ready. We should get to the Atrium. It won't be long now."_ He beckoned to her and she followed him back the way he had come, realising she'd really forgotten the layout of this place.  
  
Time had stripped the grounds bare. It was surprisingly less looted than other temples and shrines she had visited the times she had been permitted to venture away from Fen'harel's resting place. Statues, weathered as they were, still stood, as did murals, though many tiles that had once comprised them had either crumbled or fallen off, the magic holding them together faded. It seemed no one had really bothered to clean the place up. Hills of sand had formed in most chambers, and in some places it had piled up until the roof had collapsed.  
  
Finally, they'd arrived in the Atrium, which had been cleaned up. Not a speck of sand remained on the floor, which revealed an old mosaic that had been made in the image of a particular constellation. Above, there had once been a massive crystal window that looked into the heavens and amplified the stars so that one could see what they were composed of. June's handiwork, if she remembered correctly. But now she saw that whatever had remained of the crystal had been repurposed as a giant, jagged mass in the centre of the Atrium. _I'll bet that's where they'll be concentrating the magic,_ she realised.  
  
Doors on the opposite side of the chamber creaked open, the sound echoing through the vast emptiness. It was then that she laid eyes upon the ancient rebel himself for the first time in many months. He was glorious, of course, as he had always been. He wore armour as though he fully expected to be attacked—which, she knew there to be armies marching to stop him right now—and there was a grim set to his noble face.  
  
Elves began filing in, positioning themselves all around the atrium. Yrja took up a spot next to one of her elves. She knew that as soon as she acted, Fen'harel's people would be quick to react. But her own people would die for her to ensure that she was successful. A cold sweat began to form along her spine.  
  
Fen'harel spoke quietly to those that had followed closely behind him before approaching the focusing crystal at the centre. He addressed them all with a speech that was supposed to be encouraging, but Yrja had tuned everything out except for his movements, the energy around them, and the disc that seemed to emanate heat at her waist.  
  
Then they began. Every being began focusing their will into the single elf standing at the crystal. _As if he needs any more power,_ she thought bitterly. The crystal began glowing, and then pulsating. And then finally, humming. Dust shook free of cracks in the ceiling and the floor vibrated as though it wanted to fall away into an abyss below.  
  
Then, with a gesture of his hands, a beam of green light concentrated in the single pointed tip of the crystal before it exploded upwards through the roof and into the sky.  
  
It was happening.  
  
For a moment, she watched, awed. The sky rippled like a disturbed pond. Her heart was pounding as she removed Dorian's disc from her pocket, feeling it in her sweat-slicked hand. She had removed her gauntlet—she wanted to feel the power that would rend apart time.  
  
Her ally beside her removed his eyes from Fen'harel's form to look at her. He nodded once and smiled. It was all the encouragement she needed.  
  
Yrja charged forward, footsteps masked by the roaring noise around them. Shouts arose just as she reached the crystal and thrust her hand into the centre of the beam. Her hand seared, by fire or ice, she could not tell. Nothing happened and for a moment she feared that she had failed, utterly and miserably. But then Fen'harel's eyes widened from the other side of the crystal. Those blue, ancient eyes staring in horror. He would know her face now, but it did not matter. The disc came to life in her hand, nearly vibrating itself out of her grip.  
  
"NO!" he shouted, but it was too late. The beam of pure, verdant magic suddenly turned a glacial blue. But it was taking too long. Chaos was wreaking havoc on everyone around her, the ground was heaving as though a titan were waking below, sending men and women sprawling. She imagined he would have turned her to stone by now if he had been able to keep his balance.  
  
A bright blue light flashed from the crystal. Then another, and another with brief pauses in between. She realised it was mimicking her panicked heartbeat. She steeled herself against the agony and kept her balance against the crystal.  
  
The floor rolled again and she saw Fen'harel fall to his knees. Her heart dropped when she saw something behind him. A sentinel was steadying himself against a pillar clutching a bow. His eyes glowed with hatred and betrayal. With some difficulty, he drew the arrow back. Yrja closed her eyes, knowing she had gravely miscalculated this. He had too many loyal.  
  
The arrow loosed, and the world went white.


	3. Into the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

The world was green, not white. It was also filled with pain. Her lungs burned, and she remembered to breathe. She gasped for air, but it was greasy, tainted. Her eyes didn't want to focus. Something was very wrong. She hissed as something cut into her palm and realised that the disc had broken and the shards had embedded themselves into her flesh. Her entire hand had been burned by the magic, leaving it raw and parts of it burned to the muscle. On top of that, her head ached, but her chest ached more.  
  
Oh. There was a thick arrow shaft protruding from it. Any lower and it would have been in her heart. She supposed she had the chaos of the chamber to thank for the sentinel's inaccuracy.  
  
With her good arm, Yrja pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. With a bit of ice magic, she numbed the pain in her hand and wrapped it with a strip of her cloak.  
  
The Fade. She was in the Fade.  
  
Which means—  
  
_“—demons! Stand ready!"_  
  
The greenness rippled and suddenly she felt like she had been caught in a riptide in the ocean. She went stumbling, overwhelmed by whatever had just joined her nearby. A roar echoed through the Fade. Other voices stuttered around it, but they sounded tinny and thin.  
  
Then there was a crackling sound. Something roared directly behind her. Yrja turned slowly only to see a Pride demon emerging from the green fog. She called a spell beneath her skin, but then there was a louder crackle, a tearing sound, and then the Fade twisted around her. She was flying through the air, and then she impacted on something hard enough that spots appeared before her eyes and her ears rang. Wetness rolled down her forehead and pain exploded from her wounded shoulder. The ravaged hand ripped a scream from her throat. When the ringing finally subsided and she fought to catch her breath, she heard fighting. Someone was challenging the Pride demon.  
  
Yrja probed around for something to help her stand and found a wall that she used to climb to her feet. Then she limped around, vision wavering.  
  
"More coming through the rift!" It was the same voice from earlier—a woman. Yrja stumbled out into the open from where she had landed and was overwhelmed by what she saw. A massive gaping hole yawned in the sky, green and sickly. A breach. _No, it is the first one._ There was a sinking feeling in her chest. _I didn't go back far enough._  
  
But she didn't have time to think as she heard a gurgling noise behind her. A shade, much larger than her, lunged with viscious obsidian claws. She barely tripped out of the way, but the demon tore through her cloak, across her back. It screeched, holding the remnants of the cloth in its crooked fingers before advancing on her. Yrja scrambled, but then the demon jerked violently. Three crossbow bolts penetrated its wrinkled black skin, a fourth finding itself in its head. The shade melted into a puddle.  
  
"Are you all right?" a familiar voice asked. She recognised him—the dwarf, Varric Tethras. Her hand sprung up unconsciously to the book secured at her side. Varric fired a few more shots at another demon advancing on a nearby scout. "Can you get up?" She clenched her jaw and got to her feet for the hundredth time, hoping she could keep to them.  
  
"Watch out," she rasped. Varric gave her a funny look. "I said, watch out!" She pushed the dwarf out of the way with her  
bad arm and froze a rage demon in a thick casing of ice. A thick bolt penetrated it without missing a beat. The ice crumbled into small demon bits.  
  
"Nice one," Varric remarked.  
  
"We should help them," she said, eyes latching onto the Pride demon lashing out with lightning, the others barely dodging the attack in time. Varric nodded and rejoined the fray. The group of fighters were having a difficult time taking the demon down with the smaller ones wandering about, keeping primary fire away from Pride. Gritting her teeth, Yrja reached for her magic, willing it into being and refining it into the shape of an ethereal spear. A man she recognised as Yin reached up with his marked hand and disrupted the rift just above the demon's head. The brief interruption stunned all of the hostiles in the area, long enough that the warriors, archers, and mages were able to dispatch them. With a yell of exertion, Yrja took a single, powerful step and launched her arcane spear at the lightning-wielding demon that was beginning to recover. The spear struck true, embedding itself into its plated skull. The demon roared, and at first, she thought it was going to keep fighting, but then bits of it began to dissipate back into the fade.  
  
"Now! Seal the rift!" the Nevarran shouted. "Do it!" And then yet another explosion rocked them where they stood. A bulge of green light shot upward into the sky and soon into the centre of the Breach. Everyone shielded their faces at the shockwave that ensued, and beneath her arm she saw Yin Lavellan fall unconscious to the ground.  
  
She thought to approach, but realised she had problems of her own as the adrenaline subsided. The elf's arrow from the other timeline was still lodged in her chest. She wrapped a hand around the end and snapped it, then burned the evidence.  
  
"Did you see the person who threw that spear?" someone with an Orlesian accent asked. Yrja limped into view and saw a group of people departing with Lavellan on a makeshift litter. Unfortunately, most of the knowledge imparted onto her of the past had not included much of the events in Haven, other than what she had personally learned through rumours in her own time. Until Skyhold, she was walking mostly blind.  
  
"Oh shit, that was her?" Varric asked, just now realising it. Those that remained behind turned to look at her. She scanned their faces—Varric, Spymaster Leliana, Commander Cullen, a handful of soldiers...and _him_. Archers levelled bows at her and her eyes met them tiredly. She raised her hands slowly in surrender, though the action was agony. Hot blood dribbled from the arrow wound and the cold mountain air stung her burned hand.  
  
"I am no demon," she said, then cringed, realising how stupid and unconvincing that sounded. She licked her lip, tasting blood. She probably looked half dead; like a darkspawn. She shifted her weight onto her good leg. "I...I've been trapped in the Fade since the explosion at the Conclave."  
  
"How do we know you aren't possessed?" Cullen demanded, gesturing with his sword. Yrja met his eyes, hands still raised.  
  
"I'm sure you have ways of checking, Templar," she hissed, noting a minute flinch in his face.  
  
"If it lends credibility to her claims, I sense no possession." Solas' voice was calm and collected, perhaps even friendly. His tone was vastly different from the powerful, demanding one of Fen'harel. However, he was scrutinising her and she knew that to be a bad thing.  
  
"May I lower my hands?" she panted. Cullen looked to Leliana who nodded. She dropped her arms with a gasp.  
  
"We should get away from this place. There is no reason to stay," Cullen said. "We can take care of this matter in Haven." The others nodded. "I won't shackle you because of your wound, but my men will escort you."  
  
"I can walk with her, if you like," the Dread Wolf offered. Cullen eyed him uncertainly, but then nodded. Yrja didn't move. She couldn't. The elf approached her.  
  
"Can you walk?" he asked, and then he noted the amount of blood all down her front. "I believe she needs assistance," he called out to the others. A single soldier joined them and offered his shoulder to her.  
  
_"Ma serannas,"_ she said to the human. Then they joined the procession down the mountain. She was grateful that Solas did not ask her any questions, but she figured everyone was saving them for when they returned to Haven.  
  
Meanwhile, all she could think of was how she now needed to adapt her plans.  
  
When they reached Haven, she was, to her chagrin, escorted to a cell and told that a healer would tend to her soon. By now, she was finding it hard to stay awake. If they didn't come to her soon, she'd die of blood loss, or an infection. And unfortunately, she could not heal herself.  
  
The clanging of metal against her cell jolted her awake, not realising that she had dozed off. She was not surprised to see Solas on the other side. Of course. They unlocked her cell and the other elf joined her.  
  
"Will you allow me to look at your wound?" he asked. He seemed so kind and unassuming. He was a master of disguise. She studied him a moment but nodded. She was glad that she had removed her telling armour before the Temple of Elgar'nan. That would have ruined everything. _But_ it would have easily deflected that bloody arrow and most of the damage she had sustained in her travel through the Fade. Solas didn't have her remove her shirt, as the fabric was torn enough that he simply moved the pieces out of the way. The wound underneath was hot and angry. His lips pressed into a thin line.  
  
"This is going to require better tools than I have. And a cleaner environment." He sighed, but then he took in her ragged appearance and labored breathing. "But I suppose this will have to do." He offered her a potion. "Drink this, then I'll remove the arrow." He helped her lean forward and she gulped down a potion that tasted of dirt and herbs. Then, he washed his hands in a bowl that had been brought by one of the soldiers and braced one hand on the back of her shoulder. "Are you ready?" She nodded, feeling warm from the potion. Then he dug his fingers into the wound, pinched the arrowhead, and pulled it out slowly to avoid damaging anything else. She'd managed to avoid screaming, but a yell did escape between her teeth. Solas threw the arrowhead aside and then set to cleaning the wound while she cast her gaze to the ceiling.  
  
"The circumstances are...less than optimal, but I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Solas," he said as he worked. Yrja froze up, but to him it probably looked like a spasm. _The one thing I did not plan..._  
  
"Maordrid," she blurted, "Call me Maordrid." He raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I gather that is not your real name." His voice lacked any inflection. She smiled weakly.  
  
"Does it matter?" she murmured.  
  
"For now, I suppose not." A familiar green glow surrounded his hands and an itchy feeling enveloped her shoulder as the muscles knit back together. She watched him from beneath closed lids as he wiped his hands off before he began tending to her scorched hand with a salve. "I’m afraid my magic has reached its limits for today. Your hand's wound is serious, but I will return to heal it once I've recovered my strength." She opened her eyes as he finished wrapping her mangled hand. "I am surprised you aren't concussed." He dabbed at a sizeable gash over her brow and moved to retrieve a needle and thread. She held back a hiss when the needle punctured her skin.  
  
"Thick skull, perhaps." He smiled slightly but his eyes were tight with concentration as he stitched her. _"Ma serannas."_ He nodded and gathered his things, then stood.  
  
“Your method of arrival will likely have sparked question and conflict. I imagine we will speak again soon,” he said. “I’ve questions of my own.” He walked out of the cell and the guard closed the cell with a clang.  
  
"Of course," she murmured, and then her eyes shut, done with the mortal realm for that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> post edit:  
> okay, so I just wanted to add that...I've been brushing up on my anatomy and physiology because I'm in an EMT course and I realised that if someone is punctured by an arrow in their...shoulder-ish area, that shit is going through the lung. Your lungs reach as far up as your clavicle. She'd have a pneumothorax and breathing would absolutely suck. Let's just pretend the arrow either lodged itself in a spot that just narrowly missed the lung...or that because she's a super elf, she was able to survive for a bit. I promise I'll try not to make that mistake again.


	4. Blind

Several days passed and Maordrid felt they had forgotten about her. Any time a guard remembered to bring her food, she begged him for information on what was occurring. He seemed reluctant, or perhaps intimidated by her and only mentioned that the elf that had closed the rift had been named Herald of Andraste and that he and a small party had travelled to the Hinterlands for some matter or other. Her heart dropped upon hearing the news and wondered if they ever planned on letting her out. After all, she was a trespasser upon this timeline. She could be left down there, forgotten until Haven was buried beneath the avalanche.  
  
To keep her mind off of the bone-deep pain in her hand and the block of ice in her heart, she busied herself with reading Varric's transcript. Whenever anyone came to her cell, she hid it under a pile of hay on the floor. Hopefully, it would only be mistaken as a journal if seen. She would have burned it if she didn't need it. But there were small details that had been written within its pages that were crucial to her now more than ever and she could not remember them all. She needed them to survive in the new Inquisition, if they allowed her to live.  
  
A week and a few days went by. It was now that she truly worried. She hadn't bathed properly either, besides in the water they had provided her to drink. Her long black hair grew oily in its braid and her teeth felt coated in velvet. But those were the least of her worries, because the angry burn that gloved her hand was not getting any better. She washed it with water as best she could, and occasionally the guard brought her elfroot to rub on it. He was young, and conversing with him had been easy when he was on shift. He seemed to have decided she was not a threat and brought her not just elfroot, but the occasional day-old sweetroll as well.  
  
Despite his kindness, she still considered lockpicking her way out, because melting the lock would likely draw Templar attention. But even if she escaped, the places she could go were too far without supplies.  
  
So, she waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
She stopped counting the days to keep herself from going mad. And it worked. Someone finally came.  
But it seemed unintentional. He wandered down during the night, rousing her from a half-nap. Sleep, she found, had not come easy of late. She couldn't see his face in the dark, but he ventured into an open cell where they'd been storing books for some reason.  
  
"Hello?" she called, stepping up to the bars. There was a clatter, a curse, and then tentative footsteps.  
  
"There's someone down here?" a familiar Antivan voice called.  
  
"Been down here a while." She couldn't keep the derision out of her voice as the man came into sight. A glow, green and bright illuminated the old stone walls around them. The Herald. Yin Lavellan. He looked so much younger. He didn't have the mouth scar or the one across the bridge of his nose, which meant they had been acquired during his time in the Inquisition. There was stubble on his cheeks and chin. She'd heard the Herald was an elf with an envious beard in the beginning days of Skyhold.  
  
"So this is the prison!" he exclaimed, then squinting, "Wait, do I know you?" She wrapped her hands around the bars. _In another world, yes._ The reply went unspoken.  
  
"I fell out of the Fade when you opened that rift. I think they believed me a demon. Then they forgot about me," she said. His eyes widened with every word.  
  
"So I do remember you, I'm not all at loss for memory. You threw that spear...made of magic! I've never seen anyone do anything like it. That was fantastic." She found her lips threatening to smile. He scratched his cheek. "And...no one forgot about you. We just...Creators, we've been scurrying all over. I don't think Cullen wanted to decide what to do with you until Cassandra and I got back. Which...was only a day ago. She mentioned you though. Solas did too. Said he healed your wounds."  
  
"Did he suggest I might be a demon?" she asked. He laughed.  
  
"Nothing of the sort. In fact, he seemed rather upset that you were being kept down here. I was too. I mean, I fell out of the Fade but no one accused me of being a demon. Just...killing the Divine." She snorted.  
  
"Yes, just that." He smiled and bowed. She returned it with a slight smile of her own.  
  
"I'm Yin. Most recently of clan Lavellan," he paused, and leaned closer, holding the Mark up so that it illuminated both their faces. "Are you Dalish?"  
  
"No, I'm not. You may call me Maordrid." He blinked.  
  
"Are you from an alienage?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you have a human parent?" She frowned.  
  
"No."  
  
"Sorry, I...that's such a strange name." She rolled her eyes. "Then, you're a wanderer or some such like Solas?" She nodded.  
  
"Yes." He accepted the answer. "Judging by your accent, you're a long way from home." His face took on a wistful expression.  
  
"My beloved Antiva, yes. Not sure I'll ever get used to this cursed cold." She chuckled. "Where are you from? Your accent is...unfamiliar. A bit stronger than Solas'." _Indeed, because my people no longer exist._  
  
"A village by the water. You wouldn't know the place. It is far removed from here." His face wrinkled.  
  
"Funny, he gave a similar answer." She felt her face pale, but was glad for the darkness.  
  
"Is there any chance I'm getting out of here?" she asked. He started, eyes widening again.  
  
"Oh, yes, of course," he paused again, "You know what? Fuck it, it's cold tonight and this place is miserable. I can't believe they've been keeping you down here." He dug into a pouch at his waist and procured a set of lockpicks that he used to make quick work of the lock.  
  
"You're a mage aren't you? Where did you learn to pick locks?" Lavellan only chuckled. "Are you sure about this?" she asked as the door swung outward. He motioned for her animatedly.  
  
"You're now officially my guest. I won't let anything happen to you," he said. She was startled by the finality in his voice. _The Inquisitor pokes through._  
  
_"Ma serannas."_ He smiled and took the lead. "If you don't mind my asking, what were you doing down here?"  
  
"Honestly? I can barely sleep these days. Nightmares and whatnot."  
  
" _Ir abelas_ , I did not mean to pry." He waved her off as they emerged into the Chantry. It was utterly dead, even outside. The chill was just as biting as it was inside the cells, with the addition of a mountainous wind. She shivered violently. Yin turned and took in her appearance. He whistled lowly.  
  
"Damn, let's get you a bath. C'mon, you can come to my hut." She froze up.  
  
"I...don't think that's wise." He made an obscene, childish noise with his lips.  
  
"You think I care? I'm an Antivan Dalish, none of us care for bloody modesty." He laughed and continued on. _Well, it's either a bath and rumours if we're caught...or go back to the cell._ She said nothing and caught up with him.  
  
Yin was unbelievably accommodating and his healing skills were surprisingly good. But even with a good healer, growing skin back over muscle was something only time and care could fix. Nonetheless, he pushed out the infection in her hand and imbued it with a healing spell with haste attached. She was surprised by his cleverness. But she saw his kindness as being a potential weakness for him. She only hoped that the Yin she had met before had not lost his compassion. The world had bruised and battered the poor elf, taking from him and never giving back. _How could Solas ever see these people as lesser?_ she wondered as she re-braided her hair. He had even given her one of his shirts, despite it being a bit too large for her, but she'd had little choice since hers was half of one. Fortunately, her leathers were still intact, their enchantments holding up. Yin popped back into the cottage and graced her with a brilliant smile.  
  
"I knew a pretty elf lurked beneath that filth," he said. She sniffed, clutching the end of her braid. "You can sleep here tonight. It's snowing outside and the tavern is stuffed full of people since there's been a nonstop flow of refugees." He held up a hand, silencing her protest. "Stop worrying already. You're my guest." She closed her mouth slowly but levelled a stare at him. "Creators! Don't look at me like that. Did you take a thousand years of practice to get that down? It's quite effective." _You're more right than you know._ Yin threw himself onto his bed and crossed his hands behind his head. "You know, it's...nice, really, knowing I'm not alone in this Fade thing." She didn't answer, holding her hands up to the fire in the little hearth. "And you haven't treated me like I'm some bloody prophet of Andraste." She looked at him, having nearly forgotten that people had called him that.  
  
"Apologies, I...had heard about that. Should I refer to you as Herald?" An old spark of fear from ages past jumped up. She remembered how if a lowly elf did not address an Evanuris properly, they risked losing limbs. Maybe even their life. Or spirit, depending on the so-called God. Yin's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.  
  
"No. Don't even go there. Yin. Just Yin." He averted his eyes.  
  
"Yin, then." She adjusted herself in her chair. "Are you tired?" He looked at her, eyes glinting by the firelight.  
  
"No, not particularly."  
  
"Why don't you tell me some stories?" He sat up in a smooth movement, draping his arms across his knees.  
  
"All right, like what?" She shrugged.  
  
"Anything you feel you need to get off your chest." At first, he seemed suspicious, but when she crossed her legs on the chair and allowed herself to smile at him he returned it and then settled back and began weaving together tales from his life. In the warmth of the fire and Yin's lovely rolling accent, she was able to let go of the past future's worries and the new present's future and enjoy the simple tales of a man hundreds of years younger.  
  
Maordrid listened to Yin's stories until a grey light had filled the cottage. Dawn was upon them, and so was her new future. In waxing poetic, Yin had worked his way to describing what the Inquisition had been busy with while she'd been locked away, and what they'd planned to do quite soon. Apparently, they hadn't just visited the Hinterlands—they had travelled all the way to Val Royeaux where a group of Templars had demonstrated intimidating force on a Chantry sister and shortly after they'd met Grand Enchanter Fiona who invited them to Redcliffe. Being a mage himself, Yin had shown interest in travelling to meet her.  
  
Then he asked if Maordrid would join them on the journey there. At first she said no. Already, she was unsure how much her presence was changing the future. Yin gave her a challenging smile and told her to think on it while he went out and retrieved breakfast for them.  
  
It didn't take her long to decide. Especially after leafing through Varric's journal and searching frantically for entries about the early days. That was when she came across Redcliffe and the events that transpired there. Dorian. That's where they meet him for the first time. Hope, that dangerous, treacherous feeling spread through her belly. The Magister she'd known had given her a small trinket to help convince his other self when it came time to recruit him—or rather, to convince him of her purpose. She knew she had to go.  
  
Yin was absurdly smug when she voiced her final decision. _Insufferable._  
  
Their companionable silence was shortlived, however, as someone knocked on the door. Maordrid slowly lowered her bowl and looked at Yin. He didn't seem to have a care in the world that he was, essentially harbouring a prisoner yet to be released.  
  
It was the Seeker, Cassandra. As soon as the door opened, the women locked eyes. Cassandra's dark-rimmed eyes narrowed.  
  
"What is she doing here?" she demanded. Yin stood in the Seeker's way.  
  
"She was being kept in cruel conditions, practically forgotten, under no other reason than not having a mark on her hand." Cassandra's stare was smouldering. "If she was possessed, she could have killed me quite easily last night and fled in the darkness." Cassandra gaped in astonishment.  
  
"You let her stay here? In your quarters?"  
  
"You act as though I shared my bed with Fen'harel himself, Seeker." Maordrid couldn't help herself, she snorted with poorly repressed laughter at the imagery. The other woman clearly didn't understand Yin's analogy, but her animosity died down almost immediately. "In fact, she's joining the Inquisition. I think she'd be a very valuable asset to our party." Didn't see that coming, she thought wryly. The warrior's eyes didn't move from Yin's face.  
  
"Fine," she finally said. "If you trust her...then I will trust your judgement." Yin nodded in satisfaction and moved sideways.  
  
"Now that we've cleared that up, let me introduce you. This is Maordrid. Maordrid, this is Cassandra." Maordrid rose from her chair and bowed graciously to the warrior. She had heard much about the woman and respected her deeply. Varric's notes seemed to say the same.  
  
"We'll be leaving today, Herald," Cassandra announced.  
  
"Of course. Maordrid will be accompanying us." The Seeker gave a shallow nod, bade them farewell, and then departed. Yin closed the door slowly and then melted against it. "Why does everyone glare so much? Is it a southern thing?" Maordrid shrugged. Yin regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before snapping his fingers. "You need some proper clothes. I've scrounged some coin together. I'm sure we can find you some basic armour until we can get you properly fitted." How she yearned for armour. Good Elvhen armour. She'd always preferred it to soft clothes. But she knew it'd be a long time before she found good armour again.  
  
The two of them left the cottage soon after, Yin smiling and Maordrid his sombre shadow.  
The sun was barely above the distant mountains by the time a runner found them outside the walls at the blacksmith's workshop. Apparently it was time to go. Yin and Harrett the blacksmith had managed to scrap together some crude leather armour for Maordrid—an archer's spaulder, half a breastplate, and a pair of bracers, of which she'd forego the left one until her hand healed properly. She was small for an ancient elf, and lean, and unfortunately the armour that they did have didn't fit her. Which meant that she would be widely exposed. That also meant that during a fight, she would fill the role of support in their group. Part of her cringed, as that meant not keeping up on her skills as a fighter. _And that means being careful with what magic I display. What have I done?_  
  
As the two of them approached the gates of Haven, the rest of the party was descending the steps. Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and the young female rogue she had met briefly at Dorian's estate. According to Yin, the Lady Vivienne had also recently arrived but would not be accompanying them. Varric and Solas—of all people, it was most difficult for her to maintain a mask around him—had expressions of surprise on their faces when they saw her. Cassandra acknowledged her with a slight nod.  
  
"Who's that?" the young dirty-blonde asked in a tone Maordrid did not like one bit. To cap it all off, the girl whistled. That was until she looked at the sides of her head and Maordrid had never seen someone go from leering and lustful to repulsion so quickly. She almost laughed. "Piss. Too many elves. Ugh. Yinny, let's recruit some horned ladies next, yeah?" Yin rolled his eyes, ignoring her.  
  
"This is Maordrid. She's joining us from now on. Maordrid, this is Varric, Solas you've already met, and Sera." Maordrid bowed. Yin turned to Cassandra. "Are we all ready?" The Seeker nodded wordlessly and led the way to the horses. The general atmosphere of the group was somewhat tense as they mounted up and set on their way. It seemed they were all either unused to her presence so spontaneously and without warning, or, they had not gotten to know one another over the last couple of weeks.  
  
Maordrid took to the tail of the group. Just as she did, conversation finally sprung up between a few of them. She was relieved it wasn't because of her.  
  
Her eyes wandered over to Solas. Seated upon his horse, the man rode like a noble, yet seemed completely at ease at the same time. _I can see how no one ever suspected him. Save for the jawbone. Fade-expert._ She felt her lip twitch. As if hearing her thoughts, he turned his head. She quickly looked away, pretending to be transfixed on something in the distance just past him. Then, she pretended to catch his gaze and raised a hand in apology. What she hadn't planned for was him to take it as an invitation to ride beside her. He came close enough that she could have reached out and touched his mare.  
  
"Greetings, Solas," she said, more pleasantly than she felt.  
  
"Greetings, Maordrid," he returned in kind. They rode for a moment in palpably uncomfortable silence. Then again, out of the corner of her eye he was wearing a lazy smile in face of the morning sun. She was the only one permeable to this paranoia. "You seemed deep in thought. How have you been faring?" She faced forward, gathering her thoughts.  
  
"I'm...doing considerably better now that I'm not confined to the company of cold stone and rats," she said. She saw him look at her. "And I did not lose my hand."  
  
"I'm sorry. I should have visited you." His response took her off guard. She looked at him in his blue, fathomless eyes.  
  
"Why? We are barely more than acquainted. You have far more important obligations." Her words came out with a bit of an edge, which she hoped he didn't hear. Foolish woman. Getting snippy with the Dread Wolf.  
  
"Perhaps, but we are not unlike one another," her heart sank. _No. He can't recognise me, that's impossible._ "After all, we are apostates to the world. I could have come for conversation, checked on you," he said. "But, as you said, I was otherwise occupied. And I apologise for your suffering." She blinked. Grey eyes met blue. Maordrid quickly inclined her head.  
  
"There's no need to apologise." He hummed pleasantly.  
  
"If you like, I see plenty of opportunity now and in the future to converse. If you find that agreeable," he said. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had never actually had an amiable conversation with Fen—Solas. They were never friends. Barely acquaintances. And yet she'd watched over him for years. She knew him, and yet she didn't. Maordrid swallowed thickly.  
  
"I'd...like that," her traitorous tongue decided for her. _It can't be all bad, can it? Getting to know the man you've followed for so long? It can only help for what's to come._ The thought calmed her some. _But as friends, it will only bring hurt,_ a treacherous voice whispered.  
  
"I saw the spear you conjured the day the Herald mended the Breach." His voice latched onto her mind like velvet hooks, pulling her back from pessimistic depths. "In my journeys through the Fade, there were ancient mages that trained to weaponise the arcane. They used their very will to give shape to bows, blades, hammers, and more. Formidable as they were, their techniques have...somewhat survived the trials of time." His voice took on a curious tone, "Yet, I've not seen anyone destroy a powerful foe such as Pride with a single stroke of a spirit spear." Maordrid fiddled with her reins. "If you don't mind me asking, where did you train?" She smiled slightly.  
  
"In the Fade itself," she returned. "From spirits willing to impart their knowledge of the ancient warriors." Two could play at this game. They were equals in this. _So, you used the Fade as a way out? And they believed you. Clever._ Solas' eyes widened. Enthusiasm glittered in his eyes. She shifted in her saddle, feeling both uncomfortable and giddy, an unpleasant mix.  
  
"You are Somniari as well, then?" he asked. _Not even closely as powerful as the infamous Fen'harel, if that's what you're worried about. But I have skill in other avenues._  
  
"I...suppose you could say that," she answered reluctantly. That opened up the flood gates, but not in the way she'd been expecting—once again. In fact, he barely asked her any questions after that. He just seemed happy to talk to someone about the Fade and things he had discovered—and things she knew he was flat out lying about—and to have someone reply in kind with experience. She found herself feeling...sad. He was clearly lonely. Then again, she could not remember the last time she had held a conversation that hadn't been about sabotage, war, or something else of the nature. What few friends she'd had before had been wrapped in the same struggle as her for ages.  
  
So when she realised she was enjoying herself, her good mood came to a grinding halt. Guilt weighed upon her shoulders, digging talons into her spirit like a fat gargoyle. _I hope Dorian's spell didn't leave them all trapped in a burning world._  
  
Maordrid was relieved when their leaders decided to stop for the night. The tension she had felt in the air before leaving Haven had all but dissipated when they sat around a blazing campfire for supper. Everyone was engaged in talk around the fire. Varric with Sera, and Yin with Cassandra. As she took slow bites from her stew, a shadow passed in front of her and she looked up to see Solas standing to the side. She scooted over on her log and he sat beside her. They ate in companionable silence, listening to the others talk. Her left side was warm from their proximity, which was quite welcome in face of the chilly night. After she'd cleaned her bowl of food, exhaustion finally found itself an unwelcome guest to her already burdened mind. She'd nearly forgotten that her and Yin had passed the previous night with stories, and now it was catching up to her. It felt like the last month was.  
  
Her ears caught onto a few select words, "tents," and "arrangements". Sera was quick to claim Cassandra as a tent-mate, in which the latter did not appear entirely thrilled. Varric and Yin agreed on a tent together, which left Maordrid short of breath.  
  
"I'll take first watch," she offered before anyone else could. She hoped it didn't come out sounding desperate. Solas seemed none the wiser. Cassandra hesitated—understandable, given her previous reputation—but she caught Yin glance between her and Solas before reading her face. She saw in his eyes as his folly dawned upon him.  
  
"Great! Solas, will you take the next one?" he asked the apostate in a sickly sweet voice. The other man assented without issue, not even catching onto the silent exchange of emotions. Yin winked at her. She finally breathed normally again, forcing herself to stand. Solas bade everyone a quiet good night and retired to bed quickly. The others followed soon after. Yin approached her, the last one standing.  
  
"Sorry, I should have spoken sooner. Wasn't thinking, as usual. You gonna be all right? Solas is very nice." She glanced at him as she idly picked bark off a twig. "You've got to be exhausted."  
  
"I've gone through worse. I'll be fine." The Herald yawned and patted her on the shoulder.  
  
"Just remember, cluck twice like a chicken and bark once like a toad if you see anything out there," he said as he sauntered toward his tent. Maordrid froze.  
  
"Wait, really?" The dread in her voice elicited uproarious laughter from the mage. "Yin, are you serious?"  
  
"I don't know, am I?" And then he disappeared into the tent. She suddenly became very aware of how anachronistic she was. _I'll show him serious_ she vowed, grinning at the thought.


	5. Brittle Dreams

Three hours later, Maordrid shuffled from her post outside of the camp feeling like the undead and stumbled into the tent. For a moment, she observed the slumbering form before her. _Wolf. That's a sleeping wolf._ She reached out, like she was sticking her hand into a viper's nest. Her hand trembled, with fear or exhaustion, she couldn't tell. It landed on his arm. She shook him lightly, withdrawing her hand quickly. But he didn't stir.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Millennia and he still sleeps like a mountain." She shook him a little bit more firmly, this time because she apparently didn't mind the prospect of losing a hand. Finally, he shifted and sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was just inches from her face. She could feel his breath. Her mind went blank. His eyes flicked along her features blearily. 

"Did I oversleep?" he mumbled. She shook her head. He blinked slowly and then leaned back. "You should get some rest." She nodded in agreement as he shuffled out of the way, pulling on layers of robes she had not seen folded neatly by the entrance. He paused at the entrance, grabbing his staff. "Sleep well." And then he was out.

Maordrid collapsed, half on his bedroll, half on hers, her eyes closed before her head hit the pillow.

  
  
  
  
\-----------------------------------

A black-haired elf wandered through the dreamscape listening and looking. Here, she wore her old armour—the black Veil Quartz infused with Fade-touched Nevarrite, something her blacksmith thought _hilarious_ to add. She remembered the first time wearing it to fight a rogue varterral close to Ghilan'nain's lands. At the time, she hadn't fought many battles and a group of elves had dragged her into the mission. More out of sheer luck—or perhaps misfortune—she'd delivered the killing blow and was promptly landed in the infirmary when the valterral exploded on her. The elves with her had found it a riot, telling the story to anyone who'd listen.

Maordrid, the name she was...still getting used to, smiled at the memory. It had formed in the emptiness of the Fade upon her recollection of it. Upon watching the battle, she hadn't realised how close she'd come to being cut in half by one of the varterral's legs after it had exploded. _How you've managed to survive all this time is worthy of its own small myth._

She continued on, letting the Fade take her wherever it felt. The ground suddenly hardened beneath her feet, but the stone gave way like freshly cooled magma. Cavelike walls sprung up around her and the smell of fire and soot filled the air. She heard voices, muted, but more distinctly, angry.

She found herself slipping into a prowl, creeping around twisted corners and ducking beneath drooping archways of dead magma. She caught sight of a grey light shining through a hole, just barely big enough for a full-grown man to fit through abreast.

The voices issued from there. 

Something told her to leave this dream. Her instincts tried to drag her out of the crumbling stone. But curiosity reigned superior.

She inched her head around the bend and finally saw the source of the voice.

Dorian Pavus. He was standing at an opening in the rock, speaking into a voice crystal. Suddenly he spun, a haunted look on his once-beautiful face. His cheeks were sunken now and more grey threaded his hair than black. An injury had taken the vision of his right eye.

"Yrja?" he whispered. She stepped into the cave fully, feeling a surge of emotions.

"Dorian," she managed through a constricted throat. "What happened?" The mage laughed bitterly, shoulders dropping in sheer resignation.

"We failed. Well. That's an understatement." He turned back to the opening, the ashen light making him look like a corpse. She was afraid to follow his gaze. "The spell didn't work. In fact, it seemed to make whatever Solas was attempting to accomplish even worse." She shook her head slowly, trying to register what he was saying.

"N-No, what does that even mean? Worse?" She knew she sounded like a child, frustrated and defiant, but her head was buzzing; the world spun and tilted.

"Solas successfully tore down the Veil. But our magic somehow...tore holes in time. Remember the rifts all across Thedas all those years ago?" She didn't like the tone in his voice. It was disgustingly pleasant, as if he were discussing the weather. She would have preferred him to be anything but _calm._ She wasn't sure why.

"Yes." She didn't want to know what he was leading up to. She wanted to leave this place, go anywhere but here.

"Now, imagine rifts like those, but each one leads back in time. It's _chaos_ , just as Solas talked about." She swallowed, and asked the next difficult question.

"And...everyone else? Where are they?" This time, Dorian's face twisted with grief. He looked down at his feet, hands clasped behind his back. That was answer enough.

"Those strong in magic. They—some made it. Others went mad," he paused to gather himself. "Non-mages perished immediately." Suddenly she found it hard to stand. She approached the gaping hole in the cave and leaned against it, closing her eyes, still not looking out. "With the rifts, things have come through worse than demons. Creatures from the distant past, and untold horrors of a somehow grimmer future. Coupled with the return of the elven Gods? No one stood a chance."

"And Fen'harel?" she was hesitant to ask. Dorian went silent.

"He was closest to the epicentre—he was the first to lose his mind. I was told the other Gods made quick work of him." Maordrid couldn't believe her ears. This was all her fault. If she hadn't come to Dorian in the first place, the Inquisitor would have had a plan. A much better plan than _fucking time travel_. 

She opened her eyes to the world she had left behind.

A scorched, seemingly endless landscape sprawled beneath them. Blackened, as if hit by a storm of fire and lightning. Smoke billowed from holes in the earth. It wasn't entirely flat, much like the stone she stood on now. Squinting, she realised that the earth...wasn't entirely earth. Misshapen lumps that she had mistaken for cooled magma—they were bodies. Twisted, deformed corpses. She was looking upon a battlefield.

"That is the last army of Ferelden. They tried to take down...Elgar'nan, I believe is his name," Dorian whispered. "We were never meant for this world, Yrja."

"Don't say that," she snapped. "They were once elves. They can be stopped."

"How?" he asked, nearly begged her. She couldn't meet his eyes. "How can we when the only man that stopped them before was...swept away? Turned to little more than ash?" Raw fury wrapped barbed, hot talons around her insides.

"The same way that he managed before," she said, meeting his gaze. "The Veil." Dorian shook his head and laughed at her as if she were a child.

"And tell me, deary, how would we manage to lock away these wrathful elves a second time? Shall we try asking them to go back to their rooms, like reprimanded children?" 

"What other choice do we have but to try?" Dorian laughed his bitter laugh.

"We could give up. Perish. Let someone else try for once." It took all of her strength not to shake him. This was not Dorian. He'd never given up—nor had she. She never would. No, let her die fighting for this world. "There is no one left to save, my friend. It's their world now. We failed." She refused to take his poison. Yrja turned to him. Her friend. He stared sadly at her through his one good eye. She cupped his cheek in her hand.

" _Ir abelas,_ Dorian. I'm so sorry," she said, and tears fell from her eyes. He caught her wrist in his hand.

"I am too."

Then the cave shook. Fine fibers of black stone rained down on them. A terrible, head-splitting screech filled the cave. Dorian took a few fearful steps back, casting his eyes to the sky outside.

"Elgar'nan. He's back." The cave shook again and the way she had come through collapsed like glass, trapping them. Bigger chunks of old magma began to fall around them. She looked above and saw a sizeable piece shaking loose, just above Dorian. 

"Move!" she screamed, and threw herself at him, closing her eyes—


	6. Stillness before the Storm

—and opened them to Yin crouched above her, shaking her. His eyes were wide with worry.

"— _Lethallin_ , please," he was saying. She shook his hands off of her and sat up, holding back tears while embarrassment overwhelmed her in a wave. "Solas said you were shouting when he got off shift. He couldn't wake you and got worried." She needed air. Her mind was a tempest of images and voices.

She stumbled out of her tent, ignoring that Solas was standing just outside. He called after her, but she hurried off into the darkness to seek some quiet. Dawn would be there soon anyway.

Maordrid slipped into a thicket and pushed her way through undergrowth, breathing hard and on the verge of tears until she heard the susurrus of a stream and followed it to the source. She landed on her knees at its bank and let out a ragged howl of pent up pain and loss.Her cries, muffled by the forest around her, were her only company. 

She stayed there until dawn came, staring at the reflection of failure in the silver waters. _No, I have to believe it wasn't real. It was the Fade...but why had it felt so real?_ She clenched her wounded hand, digging her nails into her palm, grounding herself with the pain. Then she rose.

When she finally emerged from the woods, the others were just beginning to strike camp. Cassandra noticed her first and opened her mouth to say something, but something stilled her tongue. 

Maordrid said nothing and stepped into line helping Solas take down their tent. Her sudden appearance startled him, he murmured her name, but no other words. 

She went without breakfast too. The others bantered around her, for which she was glad, but she noticed Yin was casting her strange looks every now and then. So was Solas. _Did I say something in my sleep? I was shouting, he said._

They resumed their journey soon after. Maordrid, again, filtered to the back in silence, wondering if soon she would need to flee the Inquisition.

  
  
  
  
\------------------------

While they rode, Yin tried thinking of ways to broach the subject of Maordrid's fit last night. She had been upset, waking up, but rushed out of camp like the wind before anything could be said. Solas had told him that when he'd come to her, she'd been speaking Elvhen, but it had been jumbled nonsense. It hadn't been that way when he'd interfered. _Help them, halani is'an,_ she'd whispered in her sleep. _Ar felasil._ Then she had apologised to someone named Dorian, then to the world. And then her shapeless shouting had resumed.

The woman hadn't eaten breakfast, and now as they stopped for a brief mid-day meal, she avoided everyone, rubbing down the horses and seeing them watered instead. 

Yin set his jaw determinedly and approached her with food. She didn't stop even when he offered her rations.

"Maordrid." A quiet sigh escaped her as she straightened and placed her hands on the withers of Cassandra's charger. "You don't have to talk to me about what happened. I just want to know if you're going to be all right. Solas is concerned too." She didn't say anything for a long moment, instead running a hand along the charger's black coat.

"It was a nightmare," she finally relented. "No different than any nightmares I'm sure everyone has been enduring since the Breach appeared. I don't need pity." Yin put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, but then turned to look at him. A depthless sadness filled those dark grey eyes. He couldn't help but wonder at what had caused her such immense sorrow.

"No, I think you need a friend," he said. "Creators know we all need companionship right now. I just want you to know, if you want to talk, _ever_ , I'm here." Maordrid gave him a weak smile and nodded.

" _Ma serannas._ " He offered her a bit of bread and cheese, but she shook her head.

"You need to eat. Sleep isn't coming easy for either of us, but we need our bloody strength," he said, shoving the food into her hands. She sighed and inclined her head wordlessly. Yin smiled and walked over to his mount as everyone prepared to depart. He passed Solas on his way to his horse, but then stopped him. "Would you...do me a favour, Solas?" The man turned to face him, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, of course," he said.

"Keep my friend company. Y'know, the pretty one. She seemed more relaxed yesterday, when you two were speaking." Yin threw his pack onto the back of his horse, Terror. "You did speak much of the ride, didn't you?" he added, noting Solas' hesitation.

"We did. But I do not think she is any more at ease with me than she is with you," the apostate replied, guiding his mount over. Yin sighed.

"Would it hurt to become more acquainted? Perhaps even friends?" The question gave Solas pause again as Yin hauled himself into the saddle.

"No, I suppose not." Yin scratched his head, glancing across the horses to Maordrid who was also climbing into her saddle.

"I apologise, Solas. I didn't mean to be pushy. I just...hate to see others troubled," he said. Solas smiled slightly, running a hand down his horse's muzzle.

"You do not need to apologise for your compassion, Herald." Yin made a disgusted noise.

"Well, it appears you do." Solas darted a surprised glance at him.

"For what?"

"We talked about this. It's Yin, not Herald. What if I called you something formal? Lord Fade-Expert or Lord Dreamer?" Solas smirked. "I'm not heralding anything and I dislike formalities."

"Point taken. Will you accept the utmost sincere apology I can muster for this slight?" Yin grinned but then cursed when his horse, Terror, decided he wanted to taste everything in a wide radius with his _teeth_.

"There's the sassy mage I know. Get on your horse already or I'll take yours and you'll be stuck with Terror."

"Please no." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm using the Elvhen language sparingly because I don't want to go searching for translations...and with how little time I have to work on this, I can't even though I'd like to. If any Elvhen language is used, it will likely be rough and I'm really sorry for that. Bear with me!
> 
> Roughly translated  
> Halani is'an=help them  
> Ar felasil= I'm an idiot


	7. Stew, Staffs, and Sword Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated. Been scrambling with school and other stuff. :>

They reached a checkpoint camp just an hour's ride away from Redcliffe village where messages from the Spymaster were waiting for Cassandra. It'd taken all day to get to this camp and Yin was not of the mindset to handle any serious business for the remainder of the day. Come the morning, he would be ready to face anything. 

When they dismounted, Yin was quick to take the duty of caring for the horses before Maordrid could. Varric took dinner-duty and Sera darted off to go shoot nugs. Yin noted Maordrid's shoulders were set, which was perhaps the only tell she gave of her inner frustrations. She wanted to be useful, but today he wanted her to relax. He'd seen shadows forming under her eyes.

He cursed when she slipped off to pick herbs for Varric's stew and was just about finished brushing down the horses when he saw Solas walking after her with a satchel slung over his shoulder. They didn't go far, and Yin had no shame in observing. Perhaps it was a bit creepy, but he was Antivan...and they got into everyone's business. He saw Maordrid crouching and gathering wild garlic at the base of a hill. Solas approached and she looked over her shoulder at him. He knelt beside her and set to work. There was something soothing about seeing those two graceful elves working together. Yin on the other hand sometimes swore he was part Avvar-part druffalo and lacked the grace known to elves. Not that he minded. He could grow a fantastic beard to make an Avvar jealous, but in Antiva lovers and the like seemed to prefer clean shaven. He rubbed the stubble forming along his cheeks, grinning. He supposed that was an upside in the south--lots of people had beards. 

Maordrid and Solas returned to camp and Yin smiled when he saw Maordrid smiling. Solas was too, for all that he was serious. Everyone else returned shortly afterwards and soon the stew was cooking away. Varric bantered with Cassandra, the latter of which looked like she was on the cusp of cuffing the dwarf. Maordrid was reading a book of some kind when Sera opened her mouth.

"Yer a mage, aren't ya?" All the mages in camp looked at the scrawny archer elf, except for Maordrid, who unfortunately was the target of Sera's musings. The rogue whistled sharply, drawing her attention. "Yeah, you. Dark elfy braid."

"Yes." Maordrid closed her book slowly and put it away. 

"Then where's yer staff? Don't all mages have one?" Maordrid was unblinking, but something like vague confusion cross her features and Yin wondered about it.

"She probably lost it. Or perhaps it was confiscated when she arrived in Haven," Yin said, not sure why Sera was targeting her. 

"I don't recall seeing a staff when she fell out of the rift," Varric said, and Yin shot him a glance. "She didn't seem to have a problem conjuring a spear from the air though."

"It was destroyed," Maordrid finally said. "And I've no coin to buy another." Sera's lip twitched, but she made a dismissive gesture and sauntered away. 

"Have you ever made one?" Solas asked, leaning on his own. No, he was not mistaken, that was definitely confusion on her face. Yin looked down at his own staff—smooth walnut with stormheart worked into the core. He'd carved some runes into it and wrapped enchanted cloth around the top, but other than that it wasn't pretty. Perhaps Josephine would get him a pretty staff.

When he emerged from his thoughts, Solas was sitting beside her again with his staff drawn across his knees. He was explaining in that soothing voice of his how he'd constructed it. Yin decided he needed to get to know Maordrid better to be able to tell when she was confused, angry, or upset. Her face looked...what was it? Disgusted? Confused? Morbidly interested?

Yin moved to sit on the other side of her, curious.

"Maordrid, have you ever _used_ a staff?" he whispered. Solas was still explaining away on her other side, but her head turned slightly and her mouth opened slightly.

"Yes. Have you ever not used one?" He sat back, sputtering while she looked at him placidly and Solas cut off to observe.

"No, of course not! I mean, maybe once but it's like surprise confetti, except it's deadly. You try to fight like that in battle and could end up lighting yourself on fire...or ice-spiking your own foot." A small smile tugged at her lips as she held her hand out, just barely leaning forward between him and Solas and they watched in awe as the air glittered and a spear materialised smoothly. Then it vanished, quickly, and he wondered if he'd just imagined it. He blinked furiously.

"Arcane Warriors do not make mistakes like that." Yin tapped his chin.

"Where have I heard of those be—oh! Wasn't the Hero of Ferelden an Arcane Warrior?" 

"Yes, I believe she was, amongst other things," Solas said mildly. 

"Think she dabbled in a bit of blood magic too," Yin added, then snapped his fingers. "Could you do a battle axe instead of a spear?" Again, she held out her hand and an ornate double-headed axe with a vicious head-spike shimmered into existence. Yin reached out and fingered the edge, immediately cutting himself. Solas laughed.

"What did you expect? Your hand to fall through?" he said, still chuckling. 

"I don't know, a zap or tingly feelings? Maybe it'd turn me into a frog?"

"And you touched it anyway?" Solas shook his head and Maordrid let the axe dissipate.

"I should probably quell my inner curious child," he admitted. "Going around touching magical things. You think that's what I did when I got this?" They all shared a small laugh. "I know, don't give me that look Solas. I shouldn't joke about it."

"Why don't you train as a...what'd you call it? Mage Warrior?" Varric asked from over the fire. Sera groaned, muttering something about mages not needing magical swords and bows on top of magic.

"I think that would fit you well, Yin. You already attempt to use your staff as a halberd in fights," Solas said, earning a playful glare from him. "And you've a formidable mentor right beside you." Maordrid hadn't yet spoken and was looking distantly into the campfire. 

"What about Rift magic? Shouldn't I learn to harness this power if I'm stuck with it?" Yin asked, and Solas shrugged. A devious plan formed in his mind. "Why don't you _both_ teach me and I'll become the world's first Rift Warrior! You can't keep Firestorm to yourself, Solas. As a Rift Warrior I could make it rain swords!" Varric chuckled nervously.

"The kid is nuts, but I like where his mind's at. Dream big!" the dwarf said. Solas pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I can teach you _some_ things, but I don't know how to make it storm swords," he said with a sigh. 

"Maordrid?" She finally looked at him, solemnly at first, and then something strange passed over her eyes that he couldn't parse. 

"I will try." Yin couldn't help it, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and cheered. At that moment, Varric declared the stew ready and everyone took their turn filling bowls and finding the perfect spot to nest for the next few minutes. Yin excitedly explained to Cassandra—who had been writing missives until then—what the other two elves had agreed to do for him. She was not impressed. The Seeker then announced to everyone that they'd best get a good night's rest before Redcliffe the following day. Maordrid volunteered for first shift, although Yin was suspicious that she was trying to ensure it was the _only_ shift for that night. Well, they _were_ going into a village, which was where they'd be meeting, not fighting anyone. Maybe he'd stay up with her again, tomorrow's dealings wouldn't be _that_ bad without sleep.


	8. Guardian

That morning during breakfast, Cassandra delivered a furious scolding for having not woken anyone up for watch. Solas was also less than pleased as well, but said nothing. Varric shrugged, said "Wake us up next time" and that was it. Sera didn't seem to care. Maordrid felt terrible, but Yin assured her that he didn't regret it. _If only he knew why._

They struck camp and travelled the rest of the way to Redcliffe in relative silence. 

She'd been told that the warping at Redcliffe had been strange, but seeing it? Even during Arlathan she wasn't sure she'd ever run into this exact magic. The rift before the gates hung in the air perfectly frozen when they approached, but then when the warping happened, it writhed and bubbled. It continued like that until Yin was close enough that the rift seemed to sense the anchor and spat the telltale puddles onto the ground where the poor corrupted spirits would appear.

Everyone danced around the area when they found out that there were patches of air that seemed to slow one down to a crawling pace and others that hastened casting spells and movement so that more than once, Maordrid tripped over herself at the sudden speed. During the last wave, the rift gave birth to a handful of shades and a few wisps. Everyone let their guard down too soon, thinking to make quick work of the sluggish demons. 

Cassandra and Yin were too far off, fighting three of the shades while Varric and Sera darted around trying to avoid the spells thrown by the wisps. Maordrid turned after dispatching a shade to see a familiar bubbling appear in the ground behind Solas. The skeletal arm of a terror shot out, and at that moment, Solas got trapped in a slow bubble. Maordrid watched in horror, at the same time breaking into a run when she saw Solas' expression of surprise and fear. 

Terror raised a claw, aiming for his throat and Maordrid did the only thing she could think of, throwing her entire body at Solas, casting a force spell at the same time to shove him out of the bubble. The elf rolled out of the congealed air, leaving her trapped with terror whose claw ripped into her shoulder. Then, the slowing was gone and terror was free to gouge her again. Maordrid rolled over on her back, trying to fend the thing off with her conjured spear and arm that was now coated in blood. She tried to kick at its legs when it bent to finish her off, but it grabbed one of her feet, digging razor claws into her calf. Then, suddenly it was encased in ice. The screech it released dazed her and made her ears ring painfully. More ice encased it and then Cassandra came barrelling into it with her shield, shattering it into green chunks. 

Maordrid got to her feet with a small gasp, shaking her head to rid herself of the ringing. When she looked up, Yin was _finally_ closing the cursed rift.

"That was brave," Cassandra murmured as the others approached. "I saw you take the blow for Solas." The man himself had his eyes trained on her and opened his mouth to presumably say something to her, but Yin beat him to it.

"You had no barrier! Was that your best plan? Jump and hope it doesn't eviscerate you?" he shouted, red-faced. "Damn it, be more mindful!" 

"In the heat of the moment, it was my best plan," she said. "But I admit, it was a terrible one." She winced, moving her arm. Just at that moment, the portcullis behind them whined and began clanking upward. Someone ran out, shouting. 

"We'll get that looked at inside the village," Cassandra said, and then turned to regard the scout. Yin spoke with him too and then turned to beckon the rest of the group forward. She glanced at Solas, who looked like he had something to say but Varric and Sera muttering together about _weird shit_ promptly cut that short. They followed through the gate and were informed that the Inquisition was not at all expected and since that was the case, a Magister Alexius had not arrived. But they _could_ speak to the Grand Enchanter while they waited. Cassandra and Yin wondered why not, since they _had_ come all this way to speak with her.

Maordrid hung near the back, limping and trying to remember everything Past-Varric had written while simultaneously trying to take in details and not pass out.

They were led to an inn called the Gull and Lantern and on the way, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Maordrid spotted a bench outside beneath a tree and sighed with relief, limping over and sagging heavily onto it. Yin and the others peered on with concern. She waved them away.

"I'll be fine, meet with...whoever," she said. Cassandra nodded to Yin who cast her an apologetic look and hurried inside. Sera and Varric accompanied her but Solas approached with his eyebrows drooping. "Shouldn't you go in with them?" she panted.

"You need help. The Seeker and Yin are there, which is most important," he said, then his eyes went to her wounds. She shifted uncomfortably when he knelt before her to examine her leg. "And fortunately this time there are no Templars or quests across the continent barring me from healing you." Maordrid winced, sitting back to stretch out her spine. 

"Are you hurt?" she asked and she heard him laugh.

"You are the one who was gouged, and you're asking if I'm hurt?" he said.

"I forcefully pushed you. With magic and my body," she said in a flat voice. He shrugged.

"Perhaps a bruise or two, but I would take that over my throat being torn out." 

"Touché ." She felt his fingers begin to roll up her pant leg and immediately sat up. "I'll do that. You don't need to troubl—"

"I can assure you, this is no trouble to me. It's the least I could do." Then he promptly, but gingerly rolled her pant leg up. She watched as he poured a vialed tincture over the puncture wounds—where it foamed a rusty colour—then lightly placed his hands over them. Green magic surrounded her calf and the itching-burning feeling of tissue knitting itself followed. When he was done, he looked up at her, then her shoulder and winced.

"It's just a scratch," she said quickly. He shook his head and dug into his pack, pulling out a healing potion and a ball of bandages.

"This will start the healing process, but I suggest we see to it as soon as Yin and the others are done. No later, or you risk losing too much blood," he said with an air of authority. _This bunch is oddly concerned with my health._

He handed her the bandages.

 _"Ma serannas,_ Solas. Truly," she said as he rose to his feet. He nodded and turned to look at the Gull and Lantern.

"I suppose I will go in and learn the situation of Redcliffe with the others. Will you come?" he said. She shook her head.

"Perhaps in a bit. I'll be out here." He nodded again and disappeared inside. As soon as the door shut, Maordrid downed the potion, did a haphazard wrapping of her shoulder, and hastily pulled out Varric's transcript and leafed through it until she found an entry on Redcliffe. 

_Alexius controls Redcliffe, having altered time to reach the mages before the Inquisition. Felix, Alexius' son, is trying to stop him. Dorian sends note to Yin in Gull and Lantern. He is in the Chantry thing. Dorian will not join the Inquisition until it is certain that we ally with the mages..._

So the time-travel wasn't until much later? she wondered as she rose to her feet. People steered clear of her and she realised it was because she was covered in her own blood. Her eyes skimmed over the buildings, searching for the Chantry and saw a small camp down an incline where a few Andrastian sisters milled about. Maordrid jumped off the ledge by the tavern and into an old garden and ambled around just eavesdropping on everything. One of the sisters eyed her uncertainly as she passed by, but said nothing. By the chapel doors, she felt a strong pull from inside, which she was becoming familiar with. Pulling up her hood, she pushed the door open and slipped inside. Within was a rift—the source of the pull—from which a few shades had emerged and were trying desperately to reach the man who was hurling flashy magic at them. The shades were failing miserably.

Maordrid tossed a few fireballs encased in a cage of lightning and watched with amusement as they collided with their targets. The cages came undone neatly and chain-lightning erupted at the same time the flames did. Dorian Pavus straightened, watching the shades shake and burn with his eyebrows raised. 

"That was a neat trick," he remarked once she joined him. "Somewhat wasted, since there will be more. I'd have closed it, but it seems to just absorb magic. Sorry, where are my manners? Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous—how do you do?" She bowed slightly at the waist, staring from beneath her hood.

"Maordrid. I arrived with the Inquisition," she said. His eyes flicked between her hands, then back to her face. 

"I'd heard the Herald was an elf with a green scar in his hand. Perhaps the rumours were wrong? Can you summon it on command? Does it simply appear when you close the rifts?" It took her a moment to understand what he was even suggesting before she chuckled. 

"I'm not the Herald. He's meeting with Alexius as we speak," she said, stepping back as the rift began sputtering again. Dorian levelled his staff and languidly dispelled the green tendrils that had seeped into the floor, buying them more time. 

"Then...he sent you ahead?" 

"I felt the disturbance in the Veil and came to investigate," she said. "Something is very off here. As if the fabric of time itself—"

"Is being altered? Twisted? Shaken about a bit?" She nodded, fighting a grin at his familiar mannerisms. "Your assumption is correct. Someone has fiddled with some very naughty magic." 

"Before the others get here I need to—" She was cut off as both doors banged open and the dashing elf Yin Lavellan came marching in, face bathed green by the light of the rift. As if to herald the Herald, several enemies sprouted from the Fade and a battle commenced. Two terrors had emerged with three wisps. 

"I hate terrors," she said, jumping over one's thrashing tail. Transforming her spear into a sword, Maordrid separated the impalement hazard from the spastic terror. The terror turned its focus on her, cold and tremors instantly threatening to infect her limbs. From behind it, Dorian delivered a final blow, engulfing it in flames. 

"Does it make you sweat? Or speak to you in your mother's voice sometimes?" he asked. Maordrid's face transitioned through three different expressions.

"No?" The Tevinter cleared his throat and cast a few weak spells at the wisps.

"Me neither, funny. Heard that it happens to some people!" She shook her head and laughed. The other enemies were quickly dispatched, Yin closing the rift before the last was finished off. When it sputtered out of existence, Dorian moved closer to the elf, asking him several questions about the Mark. Lavellan turned enough that Maordrid could see his face as he spoke to Dorian who was still chattering. Yin's gaze found hers briefly before settling on the Tevinter again.

"I'm sorry, but who are you? Where's Felix?" the elf asked.

"Ah, I see I'm getting ahead of myself again. Let me introduce myself—I am Dorian of House Pavus. Perhaps more accurately Dorian of Minrathous." Yin's eyebrows knit and his face went stony. 

"Another Tevinter. Be cautious with this one," Cassandra said, stepping up beside Yin. Dorian looked on with amusement.

"Suspicious friends you have," he said, turning to her. 

"I've experienced it firsthand," she said in a flat tone.

"Would you kindly explain what is going on here? We're a bit pressed for time and I've about had it with grandstanding for today," Yin said. Dorian bowed slightly at the waist, clasping his hands and quickly launched into an explanation, always happy to talk. She was glad he wasn't much different than his future self. 

The others learned of Alexius' tampering with time, of Dorian's association with the magister and how the magic was wildly dangerous. 

"We have to stop this. Whether it's time magic or not, we can't have it spreading beyond Redcliffe," Yin said. 

"It _is_ time magic!" Dorian insisted.

"I need more proof than that. I've barely got a grasp on the subject, but I'm pretty sure that altering time would require a lot more magic than either of us have," Yin said. The two men looked like they were about to square off against one another, but Maordrid cleared her throat.

"Is it not possible that with the Breach, the giant gaping hole of magic in the sky, may have allowed him to accomplish such a feat?" Dorian mouthed _thank you_ to her.

"That is my thinking as well," Solas agreed.

"But the real question is _why?_ Why would he turn back time? Just to gain a few hundred lackeys?" Dorian said. 

"He didn't do it for them. He did it to get to you," a voice said, and Maordrid watched as a sickly fellow with sunken cheeks walked in. 

"But why?" Yin asked, clearly recognising him. This must have been Felix. In the other timeline, Dorian had only briefly mentioned him as he had apparently died of his sickness early on.

"My father is part of a cult that has become obsessed with you. I don't know why, though perhaps it's because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes," he said.

"So there's a cult. They either want me dead or captive...they've potentially got the means to alter time. Am I missing anything?" Yin said, counting on his fingers.

"Yes. We need to stop him, for his own sake and the world's," Felix said. Dorian nodded.

"The first step we've got covered—expect a trap. The second? Turn that to your advantage. And when you're ready to face him, you've an ally. I want to be there." 

"You should leave, Dorian. If he learns you're here..." The mage nodded and began making his way toward a back door.

"I'll be in touch," he said over his shoulder. "And Felix, try not to die?" The other Tevinter sighed and looked at the others once he was gone.

"Will you be heading back to your headquarters then?" he asked.

"I think we have a lot to discuss," Yin said. 

"Then I should return to my father. I hope you'll consider our words," Felix said and then walked back the way he had come.

"Do you think it's safe to stay in the village tonight?" Yin asked after the door sounded shut. Cassandra was still staring after Felix with a hand resting on her pommel.

"If what they said was true and Alexius is after you, then no. We should find an Inquisition camp and discuss things there," she said, then noting Yin's stormy expression added, "Though, I doubt it would hurt to explore a little bit." The others agreed and they began the walk out of the Chantry. 

Yin was terribly quiet. Or at least, he wasn't speaking to anyone in the group. He did somehow sniff out a woman posing as a Chantry sister and managed to get her recruited as a smuggler—with Varric's help—then did a complete about face and agreed to lay flowers on the grave of an old man's wife. After that, Maordrid decided to do a little of her own snooping. She murmured to Varric vaguely about needing to go...somewhere...and slipped away, content that he would only say something to the others if it was noticed that she'd gone.

In the other timeline, she had been many things since the time of Arlathan. During the rebellion, she'd been a spy, a warrior, and then finally a guardian of the freed slaves. Then she'd played guardian to the fallen Fen'harel himself and the occasional ears and eyes of the remaining sentinels. She'd been a traitor and a liar.

In this timeline, she was to be something else entirely. A combination of those things—a guide who'd use strings for some, blades for others, and poison for a few, steering the world into a more favourable future.

The elf vanished. Above, a hawk soared, searching, hunting, and observing.


	9. Smoke on the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap sorry for the delay. I had/have finals this week and last...and I've been trying to spend more time on my own projects. Also, I got addicted to World of Warcraft. I felt like I should post something, so the next update might be delayed as well 'cause now I'm behind.

Felix sat his saddle a moment above the village along a promontory dreading returning to the keep. He'd adopted a bleak outlook on the world recently, since the Blight in his blood hadn't receded. He could feel it spreading into his bones like black roots. He was going to die, there was no doubt about it. He felt dread, but it wasn't toward death. No, he did not wish to return to the keep so soon.

His horse turned down the road as if it knew it was futile to delay. He entered a brief expanse of forest right before the keep, breathing through his nose. Dorian hated the cold and the smells of the south, but Felix found he enjoyed the smell of the forests after rainfall. 

He heard the beating of wings above him and looked up to see a large bird take perch in an oak. It made a scolding noise at him, keen steel grey eyes unblinking.

Then he realised, he'd never seen a hawk with grey eyes.

He reined his horse in, eyebrows drawing down as the bird of prey swooped down and landed before his horse in a cloud of black billowing smoke. His horse nearly reared on him, but the mare calmed some when a figure emerged from the black. The hood was drawn, hiding the face. He felt like he had seen someone dressed like them recently, but then again he had just come from a village full of people.

"Where is Master Pavus?" He scoffed at the question.

"I don't know a Pavus." The stranger clicked her tongue. He noticed she stood inordinately still. It raised his hackles.

"Felix Alexius, son of a magister of Tevinter to whom Dorian Pavus was apprenticed to—a man your age—is telling me that he doesn't know his closest childhood friend?" Felix's hand closed around his sword. "Don't draw. I wouldn't want to see what precious little time you already have cut short. Now please, will you tell me where he went?"

"If I die before I reach that keep, nothing good will come of it. That village will likely be blamed and punished for my murder. I don't want that to happen," he said. The shapeshifter bowed slightly.

"Neither do I. We've a common goal and that is to save Thedas from whoever is responsible for the catastrophe here. I don't want to hurt Dorian, I want to help him. I've very important information for him." He wracked his brain for something, a plan, anything. 

"Are you with the Inquisition then?" he asked.

"I am not with them, but this information will help their cause," she said. "They are good people and they will save the world." Felix fingered the leather reins in his grip, eyes trained on her.

"He's heading toward some village called Haven. He didn't tell me much else, but he couldn't have gotten far." The hood dipped in a shallow nod. "If you're lying, you'll regret it. He's a powerful mage with tricks up his sleeve." The woman laughed.

"I know. I taught him, once." The magical smoke billowed out from her again, this time a deep stormy blue. A solid black hawk, this time. "And Felix, I'm sorry for your sickness. Perhaps something can be done. Unless you're fully committed to dying. We will meet again." Before he could wrap his head around her words, the hawk was already gone.

\------------------------------

The Hinterlands were too cold. Perhaps they had meant to call it _Winterlands_ instead but confused the letters? And why were there puddles absolutely everywhere? His right foot was already wet from an inconspicuous patch of leaves on the ground. He could have sworn he'd heard a bear in the woods on the other side of the hill. 

Dorian cursed himself, wishing he had saved a little gold to buy a horse. If he had a horse, he would have spurred it into a gallop as soon as he heard the strange clucking-purring noise. He'd never heard anything like it. It made him stall, then stop as he glanced around the area while carefully unstrapping his staff. The noise came again from behind him—which he spun to face—but nothing was there. He cast a barrier and summoned lightning to his fingertips as he slowly faced forward again.

He immediately released the spell with a shout of surprise at the massive creature before him, but the magic fizzled out before it reached the target. He began to draw a fire glyph but then realised that the feathered creature wasn't attacking...and stopped.

" _Vishante kaffas_ , is that a bloody griffin?" He was disgusted by how squeaky his voice came out. A strange chittering noise came from it, sounding too much like a—"Did you just _chuckle_?" 

"Perhaps." He took an involuntary step back.

"A talking griffon. I am now entirely convinced that I've passed out in a tavern somewhere and am now wandering the Fade." The griffon chuffed.

"You are not."

"I didn't hear you move, so either you _are_ a construct of the Fade or...you're a very sneaky griffon." 

"It is likely the latter. Will you put the fire out? I am not here to hurt you." He let the spell dissipate, but kept his barrier up just in case. "Good. I need your help."

"Aren't griffons extinct? I didn't know they could talk either." A very irritated noise came from it and he watched in amazement as feather and fur ruffled. "Sorry. Wait, a griffon needs help. With what, exactly? Grooming?"

"The future." Dorian just about threw his hands up in the air out of sheer disbelief, but didn't want to frustrate it further. "You are heading to Haven where you plan on joining the Inquisition." Dorian sat on a nearby rock, leaning his shoulder against his staff. "While everyone that is part of it wants to restore order, there are already some within that aren't quite on the same page. I will need help in the future regarding these people." He breathed in, not relishing the biting cold that invaded his lungs. "I know who caused the Breach, how to stop them, and potentially how to stop the others that will come after their downfall." At this, Dorian felt doubt.

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out then! You've no need for me," he said. 

"I can't do it alone. The Inquisition is the best hope that Thedas has and I wish only to help," it said. There was desperation in its voice. "Please, Dorian." 

"How do you know my name?" he said. 

"It is a long story. One you're not quite ready for," it said. He submitted.

"Then tell me what you can."

"Alexius works beneath an ancient magister, the Elder One. His real name is Corypheus. You and Yin Lavellan will visit the future soon and see what will become of the world if we all fail. In a week or so, Haven will be evacuated and you will go to a place called Skyhold. It is there that we may meet again." Dorian's head spun. The griffon moved as if to go and Dorian found himself scrambling.

"Wait, wait! What will happen to Haven? Why can't you stop it?" he asked. "How can you swoop in, heap a quite frankly _heavy_ bit of information on me then expect so much? Can we stop...whatever it is that's going to happen? What about getting others involved?" The massive creature turned its great head to look at him, eyes unblinking.

"If I knew how, I would stop it. We can only brace for what is to come. And though what happens is horrific, the future will make Haven pale in comparison. That is what I need your help with." Dorian wanted to tear at his hair in frustration but settled with drawing his cloak tighter about him.

"This is going to eat at me, you know. But fine, go on, fly away dramatically."

"I'll be in contact, don't worry Dorian." He mumbled under his breath and watched as arcane black smoke engulfed the griffon. When it cleared, the creature was gone. The only thing he could do was shake his head and resume the path toward Haven.


	10. Dragon Age 4 #TheDreadWolfRises

Holy crap for anyone watching the Game Awards, Dragon Age 4 was just announced. I'm not sure I'll finish writing this fic since it will be completely buried once it's released, or even before then. I'm pretty hyped...and overwhelmed. 

I'll probably still write, but it's unlikely I will post it unless explicitly asked.  
Cheers!

edit as of 14/02/2019 (February 14th):  
Definitely still writing! I very much like this story and hope others enjoy it as well.  
It's hard to say what the future may bring in terms of adjustments/additions to the lore, but I'll do my best and continue this story :>


	11. Bottles on the Wall...and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I totally forgot to put translations down when I first posted. Translations at the bottom.

Yin threw the last of his supplies into his saddlebags when Maordrid finally arrived carrying something that looked like a branch over a shoulder. After speaking with Senna's widower they had set out to the nearest camp. Solas had noticed Maordrid's absence once they'd left Redcliffe only for Varric to tell them she'd gone off on her own.

He put on his best fake-smile and approached her.

"Where'd you run off to? Have all the fun without me?" She planted her branch down in the soil and looked at him.

"Thought I'd make myself a staff. If someone would help me," she said. Yin looked back at the others who were in various states of packing.

"Maybe later. Cassandra received a missive about some Grey Warden in the area. Thought we should recruit him," he said. "If you're coming with us, you should get ready. We're leaving soon." Maordrid nodded and walked off. Yin watched her, wondering. He'd had a nagging feeling about her in the back of his mind since Redcliffe, but he wanted desperately to prove it wrong because he liked her. She knew something that he didn't, that much was clear.

The others finished strapping down their horses and were off back into the wild. Yin had expected there to be mostly silence after what they had seen and learned in Redcliffe, but somehow Varric and Sera managed to keep their minds off of most of it with banter about bows vs. crossbows, and when that grew stale Varric regaled them with stories about the Champion of Kirkwall. Yin had placed his horse in the centre of the group, with Solas and Varric riding vanguard, Sera and Cassandra to his sides and Maordrid behind as usual. That made it easy for him to eavesdrop when Cassandra decided to rein in beside Maordrid.

"May I ask you a question, Maordrid?" the Seeker said. Yin adored the lady for her straightforwardness. 

"Of course," the elf said. 

"Were you not tending to your wounds when we went into the Gull and Lantern?" Cassandra asked.

"Yes, I was."

"Why didn't you join us when you were done? How did you know to go to the Chantry?" Yin held his breath. Clearly this had been bothering the Seeker as well.

"I was covered in my own blood and didn't want to detract from the meeting," Maordrid said, every word clear as if she knew it was an interrogation. "And after I was bandaged, I went wandering and that was when I sensed the magical efflux from the Chantry." Yin tightened his grip on his reins. Perhaps she could lie to Cassandra who couldn't sense magic, but he hadn't been able to feel the rift until they'd been pushing on the door to the Chantry. It was that, or she was a much more powerful mage than him and Solas and was hiding it. Either way, why was she lying?

"I see. And what are your thoughts on the Tevinter mage?" Cassandra continued. 

"I don't have any. We just met him, after all. Although, I do think we should go into every situation with our eyes and ears honed," she said. 

"I find myself agreeing. Thank you," Cassandra said and then switched to a more conversational topic regarding blades and if Maordrid used them despite being a mage. 

Yin tuned them out and instead focused on reading the map. 

It seemed like hours had passed by the time they found the Grey Warden by the lake. The man didn't even acknowledge the large party approaching and seemed wholly engrossed in training the poor fools before him. When no one else mounted to approach the fellow—it had been Cassandra's idea to find him in the first place—Yin exaggerated his sigh and melted off of his horse, making sure Cassandra saw his glare as he passed. She only smirked.

"Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?" Yin called. The man broke from his men and came up to him.

"You're not—wait, how do you know my name? Who sent—" With amazing reflexes, Blackwall raised his shield as something thudded into it where Yin's shoulder would have been.

"Oh for fuck's sake. Let's clear the area and then talk, yes?" Yin said. Blackwall grimaced as if displeased to be taking orders but charged into battle just as the other Inquisition members joined the fray. Yin was hesitant when he saw that the men were little more than the bedraggled commoners that Blackwall had been barking at, but quickly launched ice and flame when they showed no mercy toward the others. They weren't very well trained and fell quickly. Blackwall seemed remorseful after, taking a moment to look at the bodies in silence before he dismissed his conscripts with what Yin considered a shitty few words of encouragement.

"So, who are you and how do you know my name?" he demanded once the farmers were gone. 

"We're agents of the Inquisition and we're investigating whether the disappearance of Wardens has anything to do with the Divine's murder," Cassandra said. Yin gave her a smug side-glance. 

"Maker's balls, the Wardens and the Divine? That can't—no, you're asking so you don't really know. Look, I didn't know they disappeared. Funny how we end the Blight and we're the first thing forgotten. Now we're to blame?" Blackwall said. Cassandra sighed.

"You've nothing to offer us?" Yin asked. 

"Look, no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn't political."

"We're not here to accuse. Just looking for information and happened upon you," Yin said. 

"I travel alone--haven't seen any Wardens for months. I've been recruiting, but since there's no Blight or Archdemon, I saw victims of the war and conscripted them. These people need inspiration and I can give them just that." 

"Admirable. But, with all due respect, Warden, unless you've got something useful for us...we'll just leave you be," Yin said. Cassandra nodded and they began to walk away.

"Inquisition—agent? Hang on, a moment, will ya?" He caught up and stopped a few paces away. "The Divine is dead, and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking we're absent is almost as bad as thinking we're involved." 

"Indeed," Yin said dryly.

"Look, if you're trying to put things right...maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me," Blackwall said with determination in his eyes.

"Well, we can use any help we can get. But...what can one Grey Warden do?" Yin said and Blackwall grinned.

"Save the fucking world, if pressed." Yin shared the smile. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. He offered his hand and the Warden shook it. "Maybe fighting demons from the sky isn't something I'm versed in, but show me someone who is. It isn't a Blight, but it is a fucking disaster and if the gaping green hole in the sky isn't persuasion enough, the treaties have power. Being a Warden means something to a lot of people. And...I've been keeping to myself too long. We need to know what's going on in this world." Yin nodded enthusiastically and the three of them rejoined the others by the horses. Introductions went around with handshakes and polite bows, but then they were on their way to another camp to fetch a horse for Blackwall. It took less than an hour to get to the one where they'd first met Scout Harding weeks ago.

"I think we're going to need to split up," Yin said to Cassandra as he rifled through journal notes. "I need to go put flowers on that grave. And who knows what I might encounter on the way."

"Who will you take with you?" He tapped his fingers on the small war table, eyeing the makeshift markers they had made for each person on the team.

"Solas since he might sense more of those artefacts. Maordrid since she's efficient in battle...and Blackwall. Just to get to know him better. But I think you should take the others and get on your way back to Haven. Whatever Cullen thinks, I am not going to the Templars. But hold on a decision until I'm back." Cassandra pursed her lips, mulling over his decision before ultimately nodding. Yin gave her a smile and went to inform the others, but she caught him by the elbow.

"Be careful out there, Herald," she said, quiet so only they could hear. "I know you trust Maordrid but—" Yin patted her hand, and she cut off with a blush.

"I'm aware. I may or may not have heard a certain Seeker's words with a certain elf. Or maybe it was ghosts on the wind, I don't know." Cassandra smirked and pulled away as Yin turned to round up the others. "Warden Blackwall! It's your lucky day!"

\-----------------

Without their large group, Maordrid had nowhere to hide and Yin was like a fox waiting outside of a mouse's burrow for it to emerge. She had no choice but to engage with the others. Solas was an easy conversationalist and with the newcomer in their midst, Blackwall made for equally easy conversation. The Warden seemed to have taken an interest in the quiet elf. Then again, Yin didn't know anyone who wasn't at least a little piqued by her—even Sera's abrasive nature had been smoothed over some when Maordrid had offered to give her pointers for future pranks.

"So neither of you are Dalish, then?" Blackwall was asking the other two elves.

"No," Solas replied with a little more emphasis than necessary. Maordrid just shook her head.

"But you're not city elves either?" he continued. This time Solas repeated her action.

"I travelled a lot before the Breach happened," Maordrid relented. "I've visited many cities, but never stopped to live in one." 

"And you, Herald? You're Dalish, you've got the hm, markings," Blackwall said.

"I wasn't always. Born in Antiva to an elf and a magic dwarf." Yin hid his smile at their outburst of _dwarves can't be mages_. "Don't judge. Love is a versatile thing. I never said he was a mage, I said he was _magic._ " He managed to keep his laughter contained while Solas and Maordrid huffed and muttered under their breaths. But finally he released an uproarious laugh that Blackwall joined in on.

"Is your father really a dwarf?" Maordrid asked. 

"He is rather muscular for an elf. But that doesn't explain his height," Solas remarked.

"Anyway, dear Blackwall, I was born Antivan and later became Dalish. That is all," Yin said, bowing from his horse. 

"I figured somethin' along those lines, what with your accent and all," Blackwall said with a chuckle. 

They quieted as they began passing through the corridor where Yin remembered fighting mercenaries a while back. 

"Judging by the staves at your backs, you fellows are mages?" Blackwall asked, guiding his horse between the large boulders.

"You assume correct," Solas said from behind him.

"And you, my Lady?" he asked, turning his horse to look at Maordrid as she manoeuvred by.

"I've a sword. Would you like to spar, Warden?" she said with a small grin. Blackwall leaned back in his saddle, eyebrows rising beneath his helm.

"It may be a trap," Solas called from the other side of the passage already. 

"I'm thinking this quiet veneer of yours is just a construct," Blackwall said. 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Blackwall?" Yin said, reaching inside his coat. The older man caught the glint of silver in Yin's grip, a mischievous light growing in his own eyes. 

"What is this? Drinking?" Maordrid looked aghast. "There could be bandits! Or bears and you two want to drink?" Blackwall caught the flask in one hand.

"Makes the fear less potent before the fight," he said, taking a sip. 

"And your senses more dulled," Maordrid said, tossing a hand. 

" _Por Dios_ ," Yin sighed. "We're not getting _drunk_ , Maori. The time to...hm, _beber como una esponja_ comes _later._ " She blinked at him. He opened his mouth to translate, but she cut him off.

_"Entiendo,_ " she said, then held her hand out to Blackwall. He grinned through his beard and tossed the flask. She tilted her head back and the two men watched in boyish amusement as she drank and then pulled a face. "We aren't getting drunk. We are drinking for Senna, no?" 

"Knew it. Just gotta get beneath that armour somehow," Blackwall said. Perhaps the Warden meant it in a purely _get-to-know-you_ innocent sort of way, but Yin saw a new means of getting truths and answers from her.

Solas was waiting for them on the other side of the rocks and eyed them critically as they emerged. Yin hastily tucked the flask away.

"Is that entirely appropriate?" Solas asked. Yin groaned. Nothing got past the apostate.

"Of course it is, it's for Senna," Maordrid said quite cheerfully.

"We haven't even reached the grave," Solas said.

"Well, it's a rather _grave_ matter. Sad, tearful business, you see," Blackwall said. 

"I mean, according to the map it should be getting close. Maybe up on that hill?" Yin tossed the flask to Solas who caught it smoothly but not without a flat stare. "C'mon, take your medicine." Blackwall clapped Solas on the shoulder as he rode by, jostling the elf. 

"Did you?" Yin heard him ask Maordrid. She didn't answer, but Yin's sharp ears would recognise the sound of the flask opening anywhere. 

They found Senna's grave not long after that and each of them picked wildflowers across the hilltop before meeting together at the headstone. Everyone took a turn at the flask this time and set a flower down. Yin read the inscription on the stone aloud and then they all lapsed into silence, though he speculated it might be more due to the alcohol at that point. His flask, while larger than the common container, was only about a quarter full by then.

"Yin," Solas said while still staring at the flowers.

"Yes, my most favourite bald elf mage?" 

"What is the cursed liquid in this container? It's vile." 

"This and that. Liquid punishment? Found a few dusty bottles on our first trip through here and just kept topping myself off." Solas paled slightly, Blackwall guffawed, and surprisingly Maordrid, who had the flask, sipped it again, swishing it around. 

"Genius, really. Wonder why I never thought to do that myself," she said, tossing it to him.

"You'd fit in just fine with the Grey Wardens," Blackwall said to him. 

"Now that you say it, I'm pretty sure all the bottles I found _did_ belong to them," he said as they made their way to their horses. When they went to mount, Yin noticed the others hadn't yet made their way back. "Are you two lightweights? Looks like we're gonna have to tie them to the backs of our horses." Yin saw the minute movement of Solas' hand and before realising what it meant, screeched at the sudden sensation of a _river of ice_ running down his back. By the time he recovered, Solas and Maordrid were already disappearing down the hill on their horses. 

He looked at Blackwall who was sitting his saddle, face perfectly composed.

"You can be my new best friend," he said loudly to the Warden. 

"Uncalled for!" Solas shouted over the edge. Yin put a hand to his chest.

"I didn't know he cared," he sniffed. They heeled their horses after the others. "I tell him constantly, but he always brushes me off." He put on a smug face when he saw them waiting at the bottom. Initially upon meeting Solas, he'd thought the man wasn't the type capable of smiling or good humour. He'd spent weeks tailoring his jokes and stories to gauge what amused and annoyed Solas the most. At the same time, he knew Solas had also grown used to him...and somewhere they'd met in the middle. 

Which was why now, he was growing more concerned about the liar in their midst and how it was affecting them. 

"After we get word to that old man about his wife, how about some real drinks and a card game?" he said. Blackwall was agreeable, predictably. "And then we can worry about getting back to Haven." Maordrid shrugged; Solas sighed. And at that moment, the Mark crackled painfully to life. Yin shouted, gritting his teeth. "Oh, I'm definitely getting a drink after this, with or without you all." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Por Dios-oh my god, or for god's sake
> 
> beber como una esponja- to drink like a sponge
> 
> These are just random phrases I found in Spanish that...more or less fit. Sorry if they aren't exact.


	12. How Far We've Fallen

Hours later, they trudged wearily back into Redcliffe as the sun was setting, covered in demon blood, mud, and what smelled like bat shit. Yin tracked down the widower, which seeing the gratitude on the man's face was warming, but did not soothe the terrible ache in his palm. He thought he had closed all the rifts in the Hinterlands, but one had been hidden in a cave. They'd barely pulled through. Closing that rift had been akin to closing a jammed door that was also on fire and left his entire arm aching. He'd decided Despair demons were his new most hated thing. However, it had been great initiation for Blackwall.

Suffice to say, he had definitely earned himself a drink or two. And so he bought a keg small enough to hike it back out of Redcliffe and to their camp.

Once he'd settled at the campfire, Solas sat beside him poking and prodding at the Mark with magic. Maordrid had gone off in search of a stream to bathe in and Blackwall was dozing off against a log after sharpening his greatsword.

"Can I ask something of you?" he asked, voice low. 

"If it's a reasonable request," Solas said. 

"It may be unethical." He hummed.

"Very well, let's hear it." Solas released his hand finally and put distance between them. 

"It's Maordrid..." He paused, finding it a lot harder to form the words than he'd imagined. He'd thought about it all day, but it was no easier. "I'm not sure I trust her." Solas remained silent. "Would you keep an eye on her?" The apostate frowned.

"I—"

"Just trust me on this. Please," he said, massaging the flesh around the Mark. "Once we get back to Haven I know I'll be too busy to do it myself. You just talk so easily to each other...and I trust you entirely." Solas dropped his head, a sad expression on his face.

"Of course, Herald." Yin didn't even bother to correct him this time. His heart was unexpectedly heavy. 

His ears pricked up at light footsteps and saw Maordrid materialise from the night with a towel over her shoulder and her wet hair already braided. She smiled, then noted the unopened keg on a stump.

"No medicine before bed?" she teased, draping her towel over a branch to dry. Yin laughed, staring into the fire. 

"Blackwall looks how I feel. I think I'll do just fine without it tonight. Maybe back in Haven," Yin said.

"The Mark—it takes a lot out of you then?" she said, eyebrows drooping. He nodded, honest. 

"I'll see you two tomorrow." He left them in silence after that, seeking the peace of the Fade and hoping that it would bring clarity of mind for what was to come.

\------------------------------

She found herself sitting nervously before the Dread Wolf after Yin turned in. Even with the small, nothing-conversations she often found herself in with him...she wasn't sure she'd ever shake that feeling of _knowing._ She considered attempting to work on carving a staff from the wood she'd acquired, but she was too tired. Instead, she tried focusing on her injured hand which had been chapped and cracked during their earlier fight. To avoid interaction, she took a knife to a nearby elfroot and squeezed its juice onto her wounds. 

"I could help with that." She smirked, but didn't look up.

"You help with everything already. Don't you need a break sometime?" Her gentle refusal had no effect on him as he joined her and took her hand. 

"I think you forget that you saved my life," he said. "I've thought about it all day. I wished to thank you properly." Her cheeks warmed and she tried to hide it by looking elsewhere as he healed it. 

"Solas, you don't need to thank me," she said. _I'll never get used to using his name._ "I'd do it again in a heartbeat. You are all valuable. " _He rarely smiled in my time. It is so strange. Oh. Is that a blush?_

"Done. The elfroot should help with the scars," he said, giving her hand a squeeze before letting go. She felt his gaze on her face as she looked at the new scars and fresh skin. "You should rest. You've been worse than Yin avoiding sleep." Her eyes snapped up to his.

"I'm not avoiding anything," she said. He arched a brow. 

"Yin suffered, you know. He'd volunteer for every shift and I rarely saw or sensed him in the Fade. I've since intervened and shielded his dreams. We _must_ take care of ourselves, if not for ourselves then for the others around us. We must help one another," he said. She felt something visceral well up in her at his words. 

"Do you need help, Solas?" her foolish mouth blurted before her brain caught up. For being ages old, she found it didn't make her immune to making stupid mistakes. She was older than many of the trees in the area and they could keep silent for years. She envied that. Solas' lips may have curved upward for a brief moment, but the flickering firelight made micro-expressions difficult to catch. 

"It seems your instinct knows when I need help most. What does it feel now?" He was leaning a little closer now and his voice had dropped in volume. She felt sweat on the pads of her fingers, yet a feral thing within her bared its teeth at him, eager to meet his challenge.

"I simply feel," she said, meeting his icy blue stare, "that today wasn't the last time you'll be needing a guardian." This time, she saw the secret smile, tucked out of sight in the corner of his lips. 

"Oh? Am I fated to a future of misfortune, then?" he said.

"Only if you allow it to find you." She smirked and turned her gaze to the fire."Then again, perhaps you are more careful than I am."

"I am beginning to think that might be case," he said with mild amusement. She slowly rose from the log, pausing a moment to look at him with an amiable smile. 

"I'll take second watch. Good night, Solas," she said. 

"Good night Maordrid." 

Inside the tent, she sat on her bedroll with her legs crossed and focused on meditating to stave off sleep. The crackling of fire soothed her nerves and she slipped just beneath the surface, one foot in both worlds.

\-----------------------------

There was red beneath her eyelids, and she was blinking furiously. It was like never-ending sea water in her eyes; a stinging that wouldn't clear. She wiped a hand across her face and managed to alleviate it a bit, though it still felt like she was standing directly in the smoke of a campfire.

"Oh, no, no!" The source of red hadn't just been the back of her eyelids. No, it was a million times worse. From her vantage point, she couldn't even tell where she was, except that there was red lyrium _everywhere_. The sky was dark, but from the way sound travelled it may have been a massive cave.

There were filaments of red lyrium coating her arms like ashes. She was afraid to breathe, but it was likely too late. She took off toward an opening in the red crystals, hearing the sounds of raging fires, battle, and shattering rock. But below it all, there were whispers. They sang, dissonant and sweet and dug beneath her skin, reaching a place she didn't think existed. It burned and soothed, like ripping skin off only to heal it quickly. The noises grew in her ears to a deafening clamour, causing her to clamp her hands over her ears.

"NO!" she screamed, sprinting away. It was in her. She could feel it in her throat. There was little time. 

_I know this place. We were here long ago, when things were bad._

Her heart dropped. If this was the place she thought it was, then... _fuck_. She recognised what little architecture had been hastily built in this place. The opening had led to an old watchtower with a small courtyard, but it was all overgrown with corrupted lyrium. 

_Why are we here...again?_

A hand grabbed her wrist and she spun to see an old accomplice of hers, Miradal.

"What are you doing here, Yrja?" Mira demanded. 

"I-I don't know. I don't know how I got here," she sputtered. Miradal shook her head angrily.

"The vault is under assault," the sentinel said with urgency. 

"Since when?" she asked, holding Mira by her shoulders. The sentinel laughed bitterly.

"Technically since the first Blight, from different enemies. We've managed to hold off the infection, but...it's spreading with help. The last vault remains untouched by corruption, but...it won't stay that way if we lose here." Mira tugged at her. "Come on, it's not safe in the open." Miradal pulled a helm over her face and grabbed her hand tightly before leading her through a maze of glowing red. They passed by a gaping hole in the wall of lyrium at one point and Yrja caught a view of a wide bridge far below and a surging battle taking place upon it.

"They're nearly at the doors," Yrja said. "But who are they?"

"The same people that helped seal it to begin with." The answer she dreaded.

"But why?" She ducked, running through a tunnel that had been blasted through the rock. They were getting closer to the bottom. "If it gets out...the world is doomed. There's a chance people would survive the Veil coming down, but not this."

"We know, _lethallin._ But we were taken by surprise. We expected anything but this." 

Finally they emerged from the singing tunnel where they were level with the bridge, the battle, and the colossal doors that loomed on the other side. 

"I'm prepared to die. We all are. We have a fighting chance with you, sister," Miradal said, laying a hand on her shoulder. 

"This can't be real," she said. Miradal laughed again.

" _Dareth shiral,_ it was an honour fighting by your side." Then she was gone. The remaining elf cursed, watching as Miradal joined the fray. She saw a familiar shadow above the armies that kept diving and swiping, occasionally sending the bodies of elves flying over the edge of the bridge to their deaths. Red orbs floated in the shadow like motes of flame. She narrowed her eyes at them, rage and magic filling her. She cast off her form in favour of something that could rip and tear. Talons and beak and claws—she dove at the shadow with a shriek. 

Tendrils of darkness snapped at her when she drew near, but her frenzied ripping and tearing ensured they never pulled her from the air. She rolled and darted and dodged until she found herself before the floating red orbs. _How far we've fallen, that it comes to this._

Jaws dripping with black and red ichor snapped at her, nearly taking her left leg. She snarled and raked back with a foot, gouging into the snout. She opened her maw and released a torrent of corrupted ice at its face, hearing it howl in pain. Below, there was a cry of triumph as her people saw her fighting back. But her pause was her undoing—the jaws came once again and this time, they clamped around her middle. She screamed as its fangs severed a wing and pierced all the way through her body. Her magic escaped her. It shook once and then released her, sending her hurling through the air. She crashed through a forest of red pillars, breaking several and losing her form in the process. She rolled to a stop on her stomach, missing her left hand and feeling several broken bones in her right. Breathing came in short, laboured puffs. Blood poured from her mouth.

Through the singing in her head and the roaring blood in her ears, she heard footsteps. 

" _Fenedhis!_ Maordrid!" She thought she recognised the voice...from another life, another world. Gentle hands turned her onto her back and her head was cradled softly. She blinked through tears, moved her broken jaw. "No, don't speak. You're..." He cursed again. "This is not good. I need you to _wake up._ "

And she did--to another nightmare.


	13. Subdued

Maordrid woke with a gasp that quickly devolved into violent wet coughs. She was holding onto something, but through the black spots in her vision, couldn't see what it was. The world tilted and then she was vomiting something black in the darkness. A magelight appeared and she realised Solas was beside her, holding her up. His face was pale with fear.

"You've internal bleeding," he said, setting her down. An aura of green surrounded her entire body. She tried to speak, but flexing the muscles in her throat told her there was damage there too. _That was no normal dream. I shouldn't be injured. Fenedhis, I can't even bloody meditate!_

A sudden gust of crisp air flooded into the tent as Yin appeared inside, looking to Solas, then her.

"Oh gods, Solas, what happened?" he said. 

"I need help," Solas said through gritted teeth. Immediately Yin fed him his will and Maordrid felt things inside of her mending. "She's going to vomit more blood, but clots this time. Get a rag." As if on cue, she felt it rising up her throat. Solas helped her up quickly as chunky red liquid poured out. A damp rag was drawn across her mouth, wiping it all away. Finally, the spots cleared from her vision and she could move—well, mostly. Solas handed her a waterskin, which she took gratefully and used to clean out her mouth. She was glad her jaw and hand were intact in this world.

"I...I think I need..." Her throat grated, but she pointed in direction of the river. 

"You're not going alone," Yin said, and though she could not see his face, his voice was dark. "And don't even think about running off into the forest like last time." She rose unstably to her feet and emerged from the tent. Her green cotton tunic was drenched in blood, now that it was lit by the fire. Yin dragged a hand across his face at the sight and Solas was silent, face plastered with worry.

"I'll go," the latter said and stepped forward, offering his arm. Heavy with shame and residual fear, she took it, leaning into him as they walked. 

"What did you see?" she asked, finding it easier to speak in a whisper.

" _Nothing_ ," he replied, sounding deeply troubled, "It was as though whatever you were dreaming literally threw you from it, then destroyed itself." She remained silent and approached the babbling brook on her own when they arrived.

"You were on watch," she said, as she worked to remove her shirt. Solas cleared his throat and a glance told her he had turned his back.

"I only realised you were in trouble when I heard you coughing, and then choking." She took the rag Yin had given her and drew a fire rune on a rock before setting it into the brook. Then she began washing the blood away. Her inner thoughts were...subdued. She was numb. It was better answering his questions than trying to understand what she had seen.

"And when you realised it wasn't an assassin, you went into the Fade to confront it." Solas made a strangled noise.

"That is when I found you."

"So you were there," her voice was thick and her face was burning. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that." Her hands shook as she tried scrubbing the blood from her tunic. "It seems we are even now." 

"Don't be crass," he snapped. She looked at him and his sudden anger, but he still wasn't looking at her. "All else aside, you were seconds from death, Maordrid. It is never easy to see someone in that state, nonetheless someone you...care for." She pulled her stupid shirt from the water and with a careful fire spell, began to dry it. _Care?_ she suddenly realised. _Damn you, Solas._ She pulled her shirt on, still slightly damp, and rose to her feet slowly, finally turning her eyes to him. His posture was rigid, shoulders hunched, and he seemed to be looking down at his hands when she touched his shoulder. He turned slowly.

" _Ma melava halani_ ," she said, bowing deeply. His hand shot out and eased her back up. 

" _Ara melava son'ganem,_ " he said. "There is no need for bowing." Maordrid offered a weak smile and rubbed her forehead. "Although, now I think I understand why you avoid sleeping. Has that happened before? Waking up injured?" _Unless you count the times I fought Dreamers in Arlathan during the rebellion..._

"No. I usually have full control over my dreams," she said instead. "We should return. I think I need a drink off Yin's flask." Solas offered his arm again, and she tried not to think about how much comfort she drew from the kind gesture.

"When we return to Haven, you should visit me and we can try to figure out what caused this to happen," he said as they walked. His offer was tempting, because as Fen'harel, she knew he could easily end her problems by shielding her dreams. But that wouldn't be an option if her dreams continued to be about him or related in some way to his ancient identity. There were a few alternative options to accepting his help—all of them terrible, but risk-free. Well, save for potentially dying if none worked.

She pretended to think about it all the way back to camp where Yin was sitting wide awake before the fire. It looked like Blackwall hadn't even emerged from his tent during the scramble.

"Yin, your dreams are secure, right?" she said as soon as they were within earshot. 

"Yes, thanks to Solas," he said. She smiled.

"Well then, that is all that matters. I will be fine," she told Solas and before either of them could protest, she continued, "It's the Herald that matters and it is likely I was attacked by a demon. Next time I will be more careful." Yin looked torn, but didn't seem to know what to say. A stormy expression was on Solas' face.

"You suffer needlessly," he said. 

"No, if you are busy guarding Yin's dreams then that is where your concentration should be," she offered him a smile, but it didn't ease his mood, "Your kindness won't go forgotten, Solas." Something unspoken passed between Solas and Yin over her head, but she figured it was a mutual frustration over the situation. 

"Get some rest, Solas. Gods know you've earned it," Yin said. Solas gave her one more worried expression and then disappeared into one of the tents. Yin gestured for her to sit and offered her the flask without her having to ask. She finished off whatever was left. He was watching her when she handed it back to him. "I've seen the capable mage you are. There's no way you don't know how to guard your dreams." Maordrid sighed.

"I was already exhausted. Whatever it was must have taken advantage of my weakness," she said, and meant it. It was the only explanation to how she'd been drawn into thinking it was real—it had to have preyed on a deep seated fear of hers, one that she prayed to the Void would never see the material world. 

Yin poked at the logs with a stick sombrely.

"Just...if it continues...I don't want someone to get a Templar involved," he said. Her heart sank.

"If you think I'm possessed—"

"No, I don't think you are. But Haven has a lot of superstitious people and I don't want something bad to happen to you." She shut her mouth with a click. "And judging by Solas' reaction and the way he volunteered himself tonight...he cares. More than he lets on." She wished there was more booze or that she had the strength to take a walk until dawn...or maybe a rift could swallow her again? No, instead her and Yin sat in uncomfortable silence for a long while. Neither of them could or would sleep. 

That night, she vowed she would get herself a lute to avoid this again. She spent the next few hours tweaking the melody to an ancient song in the margins of Varric's transcript.

When the sky began blushing, Yin went to wake the others and Maordrid took to readying the horses so they could get out of there after breakfast. Which, once it was done, if she hadn't been so intimidated by Solas she might have thought his checkup on her was sweet. He'd given her hastily prepared elfroot tea, although slightly watery. 

The ride back to base was more the mood she had expected on the way to Senna's grave. What little was said had to do with pointing out road hazards or animal tracks in the snow once they reached higher altitude.

The party reached Haven just after midday. Cassandra joined them from the practice yard and looked like she had every intention of whisking Yin away. Before disappearing with her, the Herald turned to Maordrid.

"You should probably find your own lodgings from here on out," he said. He avoided her eyes, even when she nodded. He glanced at her, inclined his head, and set off at a brisk walk, leaving her alone. No one seemed to have heard the exchange—Blackwall ambled off in the direction of the blacksmith and Solas had gone shortly after Yin into the town.

Maordrid walked up the steps, wondering why Yin had been so cold and distant to her recently. She couldn't remember when it had started, as he had seemed fine on the ride to the grave. Everything after the events of the previous night had been the opposite.

To keep her mind off of the implications, the lost elf made her way through Haven for the first time, looking for someone who could point her in the direction of lodgings, whether it was sharing another cabin with people or a tent on the frozen ground.

The Quartermaster, it occurred, was less than accommodating. She didn't have _time_ to help a knife ear like her, even when Maordrid told her she'd just come off a mission with the Herald. Apparently a lot of elves claimed that. 

That encounter only reminded her of how flawed this world was. It would have to change, but not in the way that others intended.

After hours of walking aimlessly with her boots beginning to let the cold in, she stopped in the middle of the bustling pathway and considered barging into the Chantry for help. 

Deep in thought, her heart shot into her mouth when a hand fell on her shoulder.

"Oh good! It is you!" a cheerful voice said. When she turned, she was utterly relieved to see Dorian, hooded and hunched against the cold. "Are you busy?" Her laugh came from deep in her chest.

"I just spent a pathetic amount of time looking for a place to stay. We just arrived," she said. Dorian rubbed his hands together and breathed into them. 

"Fantastic, we can look together," he said. "But first, wine. I need lots of it. Where's the tavern?" She knew, she'd just passed it not long ago. With a jerk of her head, they set off side-by-side.

At the Singing Maiden, Dorian directed her to take a small table for them and glided away in search of a bottle of wine. Maordrid spotted Sera sitting at a table by another door tucking into a bowl of stew, but the young elf didn't seem to see her. It was probably better if she found a solitary table anyway. 

She found one with a view out of the tavern—one that looked straight up into the Breach. Dorian joined her not long after, landing heavily in his chair across from her. He flashed her a charming smile and poured a cup for each of them, drinking heavily before any words were spoken.

"How was your journey?" she asked. He lowered his cup just enough to fill it up again like a man dying of thirst, then giggled with a hint of hysteria.

"Lovely. Definitely enjoyed the cold and soggy _charm_ of the south. And the wildlife! Aren't griffons extinct, by the way?" She disguised a laugh through her wine as clearing her throat.

"So they say, but we should doubt everything," she said.

"Ah, my thoughts as well," he said. "So, you say you all just returned? Where are they at?" Flissa appeared holding a bowl of stew and a cutting board with a loaf of bread on top. 

"Settling, I believe. Hungry, are we?" Maordrid said, rather amused. 

"I was _not_ prepared for this place. A fucking _fennec_ robbed me. Took all my food. He even waited until I woke up, as if to say _''Twas me that ate your only food!'_ and defecated on a rock before leaving," Dorian took a bite of the stew and shook his head. "I should have eaten _him._ " He glanced at her a moment and then cut the butt off his bread, tossing it to her. "Please eat so I don't look like an evil Magister holding food from a...well, slave." 

"And here I thought you were all selfish bastards," she smirked. 

"Don't make me take it back. I do have appearances to keep up. If you weren't the charming elf I met back in Redcliffe I might have rolled with it, maybe boss you around a bit." 

"Flattered." He dunked his bread into the stew and popped it into his mouth.

"It's Maordrid, right?" She nodded. "Mind if I call you Maori? No? Good. Well, Maori, how about the two of us waltz up to the Chantry after this and make a grand entrance?" With half a bottle of wine in her and a friendly face in a rather hostile place, she couldn't say no. 

Minutes later, they left the Singing Maiden together and made their way up to the Chantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found the Project Elvhen post on language and took a few phrases from there. So thanks to Fenxshiral  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7826750
> 
> Ma melava halani--“You have spent your time to help me.” It's apparently used intimately, but I was hoping to convey a deeper gratitude instead of the common Ma serannas. I'm sure there is a better phrase to say "Thank you for saving my life" but I don't know it.
> 
> Ara melava son’ganem. -- "My time is well-spent." Same as the above, apparently used more intimately (as in, friends, family, lovers).  
> :)
> 
> Also, I don't know if it's just me or if the formatting is off. I hate the way this site breaks up paragraphs and dialogue :/  
> Hope it doesn't give anyone a headache.


	14. Party Up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this is probably a bit boring...but I think the next chapter will be better. And then we'll get to Redcliffe...Storm Coast (briefly)...then Haven/Closing the Breach. :o

Yin leaned against the wall, rubbing his chin in distant thought as he listened to Cullen argue for the Templars and Leliana countering him for why they _shouldn't_. Cassandra's voice rose above them every now and then, but for the most part had already announced her concern about the danger in Redcliffe. 

"I'm far beyond this argument," Yin whispered to Josephine. Cassandra caught his eye and called for silence, which blessedly fell. "We're going to Redcliffe. That's all, Cullen." The other man rubbed the back of his neck in frustration, but finally gave up. "We've already determined Alexius' invitation to be a trap. How about ways to spring it without killing everyone?"

"Considering that Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden, it's futile to think we'll be able to take it by force," Cullen said. 

"That's why we _won't_ _take it by force_. We don't have the man power anyway," Yin said.

"So you're just going to walk in there? You'll die and we'll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I won't allow it and neither should anyone else in this room!" Cullen said. Yin bristled.

"I'm not some _pawn_ of this organisation. I will decide what I do!" he hissed. 

"If we don't try, then we lose the mages and leave a hostile foreign power unchecked," Leliana cut in calmly, narrowing her eyes at the ex-Templar.

"The Magister—" 

"Has outplayed us," Cullen interjected on Cassandra. 

"No, _nope,_ there is definitely a way and we're overlooking it. Do we know of literally _any_ other paths in? Sewer tunnels? Underground caves? Secret entrances?" Yin said, stepping away from the wall to glare at the map. Cullen opened his mouth to likely spew something else of opposition, but Leliana's face lit up and Yin held his hand up, gesturing to her.

"Wait, I do remember a secret passage the Hero of Ferelden took during the Fifth Blight. It's an escape route for the family," she said. "It's too narrow for our troops, but we could easily send agents through." 

"No! Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the Magister," Cullen said. Leliana smirked victoriously.

"That's why we need a distraction," she looked to Yin, "Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly?" Yin shared her grin.

"I make a very handsome distraction. And Leliana's sneaky little sneaks can dismantle Alexius' entire operation before the trap springs. That's what I'm talking about," he said. Cullen rolled his eyes.

"It's a gamble, but it might work," he said. They all stopped at the sound of voices on the other side of the door, and then the door itself flinging wide open to admit a familiar man. 

"Fortunately, you'll have help," Dorian said. One of Cullen's men appeared behind him looking flustered. 

"This man says he has information about the Magister and his methods, Commander," the soldier said. Dorian came to stand right beside Yin with a wink.

"Disabling Alexius's magic won't be possible without my help, and thus, no spies to stop him. So if you're going after him, I'm coming along," the Altus said. The room was taut as a drum head as they all looked to Yin.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Herald? The plan ultimately puts you in the most danger," Cullen said. Yin was giddy, though he couldn't explain why. 

"Send dear Alexius a perfumed letter of acceptance attached to a fruit basket," he said, which Dorian seemed to find amusing. "Also, how long would it take to get to the Storm Coast?"

"A week?" Leliana said, eyeing the map. "Why?"

"Some mercenary stopped me out front earlier. It's another potential recruit for us," he said. "I'm thinking after our business in Redcliffe is concluded, we make a trip out there before circling back. That way by the time we're back most of the mages should arrive, no?" 

"That's if everything goes smoothly with the Magister." 

"Hey! Enough of that sullen shit, Cullen. Or I'm gonna start calling you Sully Cully." Leliana may have giggled, but when Yin looked she was straight faced. Josephine pursed her lips against a smile. "All right, I think it's all settled. Redcliffe, then Coast. We leave when Leliana's agents are ready." As the war council adjourned, Cassandra stopped him.

"Who will you be taking to Redcliffe? And the Coast after?" she asked. Yin looked at Dorian, who until now had been examining the map quietly. He didn't realise how long he'd been looking until the mage felt his gaze and glanced up. Yin raised an eyebrow unabashed.

"Him, clearly. He's too pretty, I think he needs a fine layer of dirt to cover the sparkle. It hurts my eyes." Dorian snorted.

"And I think you need a bath. You hurt my nose." Yin bit back a smile and looked back at Cassandra when she made a noise.

"Solas, of course. His healing is outstanding lately," he said.

"You know, Lady Vivienne I hear has refined abilities," Cassandra said. Yin grimaced.

"She doesn't like me." 

"You outright told her you'd sleep with her, Yin," Cassandra said. Dorian laughed off to the side.

"Bold, I like it," he said.

"It was a complement. I mean, I'll sleep with you, Cassandra. And Dorian."

"Don't threaten me with a good time," Dorian said. Cassandra made a disgusted noise. 

"Forget it, I don't want to come anywhere with you," she said, though she was smiling. 

"All right, Cassandra is coming. That makes four?" he tapped the map. 

"What about Maori?" Dorian asked. "She seems...capable." Yin looked sharply at him.

"Maordrid?" Cassandra said. "Yes, I think that would be good." Yin waved vaguely.

"If you think so. I'm done here, I need a bloody bath," he said. Dorian hummed thoughtfully.

"Would you know if there are lodgings available? I just arrived," he said. 

"Yeah, there's a cottage near the apothecary. Knock yourself out," Yin said and, although he had conflicting feelings about trusting the Tevinter mage, he didn't pull his eyes away from the man's backside as he walked out. If he hadn't done that, then he wouldn't have caught Dorian meeting up with Maordrid herself who had been patiently waiting just outside.

"Something wrong, Herald?" Cassandra asked, seeing something on his face.

"I'm not sure yet, but I think those two know each other," Yin said, lowering his voice. Cassandra followed his gaze to the two mages disappearing out the Chantry doors. "Am I being too suspicious?" 

"No, but...I do not think you should treat her as such. If you suspect duplicity the last thing you want to do is act suspicious around her, or him," Cassandra said. "We'll be travelling together soon. We will have plenty of time to gauge such things." Yin nodded in agreement and thanked her. She really was a gem of a human. 

"What would I do without you, Cassandra?" he said as they left the war room.

"Die, most likely," she said and while she didn't laugh right away, she did after he belted raucously up at the sky. Just then, he realised what the giddy feeling meant when his eyes naturally found the Breach in the sky. He was giddy because his brain wasn't comprehending the amount of danger he was about to walk into. 

But that was Yin Lavellan, headfirst into everything.


	15. A Thousand Years of Wistful Thoughts

The door swung wide open on creaky hinges, and while she half expected a fine misting of dust to fall upon them she was pleasantly surprised to see that the interior of the cabin was tidy. This place hadn't been long vacated. It was likely the prior residents had died in the blast at the Conclave. The thought made her swallow. Hard. 

"It's no marble palace, but..."

"It's not freezing wet snow either," Maordrid said, setting her meagre belongings down on a bed and propping up her un-carved staff. Dorian perused the bookshelf as she threw a few logs into the fireplace and lit it with a gesture. "Thanks, by the way."

"For what?" he asked, pulling a tome from the top shelf.

"I wasn't sure where I was going to stay tonight," she admitted. 

"Well, I suppose it's the least I could do. You're one of the only people that hasn't treated me like I've grown four heads when I tell them where I'm from. I can only imagine how bad elves must have it." She sighed, turning her palms toward the fire.

"I find it unfair to play the _who has it worst_ game. Telling someone their problems are invalid or they're weak because someone else endured torture and starvation. There's bloody struggle everywhere," she said. When he didn't reply right away, she turned to see him staring thoughtfully at her. "What?"

"Nothing. It's...hm, you're interesting," he said, and left it at that when there was a rapping at the door. Dorian opened it. "Ah, I recognise you! But I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Solas," she heard and her brows furrowed, wondering what he was doing. "I wasn't aware you were here."

"According to Maori, we arrived only minutes apart. May I help you? _Kaffas_ , I think we just ran out of wine or else I'd offer." Dorian stepped to the side and signalled her with his eyes. Warily, she rose and walked to the door. 

"Hello, Solas," she said. The elf offered a tentative smile.

"I was wondering if we could speak," he said. _Dammit. What is this?_

"I—yes, one moment." She hurriedly grabbed her cloak and swung it on. Dorian thrust a few coins into her hand with a wink.

"Grab a bottle on your way back. Maybe two." She laughed under her breath and joined Solas outside. Dorian waved and shut the door.

"Two bottles of wine?" Solas said, sounding surprised. "We can walk there together, if you're agreeable." She took the lead with him keeping up easily on his long legs. "I see you two are getting along...well." 

"Happenstance, I think. Yin thought it best that I find my own lodgings. If it weren't for Dorian, I'd likely be sleeping in a tent with handsy soldiers." 

"And you didn't think to ask one of us?" he said as they came once more upon the tavern. She didn't know what to think about this line of questioning.

"If I recall correctly, you practically vanished after we got here. And I'm pretty sure Blackwall is sleeping in the ranks. Sera definitely sleeps under a table and Varric's tent is ridiculously small." They walked inside and Maordrid immediately made her way toward Flissa. "Also, aren't you bloody sick of me? Two of whatever wine this can get me." She handed the coins to the proprietress and turned back to Solas.

"No, on the contrary, actually. I find you troublesome. And fascinating," he said. She choked on her own spit. _He's flirting. Void swallow me._

"Troublesome—wouldn't spending less time with me, you know, solve that issue?" Flissa returned with two green bottles that Maordrid thanked her for, but she didn't quite want to leave the warmth of the place so fast. The increasingly acrid smell of a populating tavern, however, was enough to push her toward the door after a minute.

"Not like that. You must realise how concerning your dream was. I have a feeling that Dorian isn't a Dreamer...or a healer," he said once they were out in the snow again. He clasped his hands together before his face and blew, the glow of a warming spell lighting his face up. 

"You're probably right about him. And yes, the dream was concerning. Your point?" she said. 

"I was hoping you'd allow me to help you." He looked at the wine bottles clutched in her arms. "I'm sure Master Pavus would believe it if you told him his coin only afforded him one bottle." Her jaw just about broke again and fell into the snow. He smirked and began walking back toward the snow-covered steps. She followed him, telling herself that what she did was for those she left behind. After all, she was here for one reason—to gather information and find a solution.

It turned out, Solas was staying in a cabin right across from the one her and Dorian had commandeered. His was much better settled, with hanging herbs he must have gathered along their journeys, more books than in their cabin, and other miscellaneous things. _And there's a lute!_ She carefully set down the bottles and walked over to the lonely instrument.

"Is this yours?" she asked as he removed his coat and gloves.

"It was here before me," he said. "Do you play?" She held the sad lute in her arms and looked it over for damage. Surprisingly, it appeared to be a well-loved instrument. The wood was polished and the strings weren't terribly worn. It was out of tune though. She brought it over to a chair and sat with it as Solas innocently inspected one of the bottles. 

"A long time ago. Long enough that it might not matter now," she said, turning the pegs and plucking accordingly. "So. What's on your mind, Master Solas?" A cork popped and liquid poured.

"Have you speculated on what nature of spirit you encountered last night?" he asked. "It was powerful, that much is clear." 

"Rage or fear, maybe," she said. She hadn't yet looked over Varric's transcript for possible hints. She remembered them saying something about having faced a massive demon in the Fade at one point. They'd lost Hawke in that battle. But what had it been? The book was secured to her belt like a spellbook, but looking now would only draw attention. 

"We could look for it," he said, handing her a tin cup of wine. "I know how to keep us hidden, if we find it. And it's likely it won't be far from you, as those spirits often stay close to their prey until banished or they succeed in acquiring what they came for." 

"You haven't had any wine and _that's_ your grand idea? What is it like when you're actually drunk?" she said.

"You do realise that any solution for your plight isn't going to be pleasant? Or easy?" he said, looking at her over the rim of his cup.

"Point taken, but still. Should we be trying that right before going on a massively important mission?" She decided to try the wine herself and found it much too sweet, but couldn't bear to waste it.

"And what do you propose to do until then? Not sleep?" She looked into the red liquid, one of her more destructive plans, then back at him as she tossed the wine back and held her cup out for more.

"Drink myself into blackness every night until we're clear," she said. His glare should have burnt her to cinders. When he didn't refill, she snatched the bottle and did it herself. "Or ask the potion master to mix me something potent."

"The potion is probably a wiser idea, although Adan may just as likely ruin your liver," he said, nose wrinkling at his drink. "As much as it displeases me, I think it is better suited to our time frame." He watched her with shining eyes as she strummed absently on the lute. "You will tell me if it doesn't work? Or will I have to hunt for your body should you fail to appear one day?" She snorted. 

"Do you want to help me with something?" she said, strumming the first chord to the old song. His ears twitched slightly at the notes.

"Yes."

"I'll be right back then." She set the lute down, grabbed the other bottle, and slipped out the door. Dorian had settled on a bed near the fire, looking up from a book when she burst in. "Probably be back late? Don't wait for me." She tossed him the wine and grabbed the branch she'd been carrying around. 

"Oh! Are you elves off to play with the trees? Hang on a moment, that should have bought two bottles. Gasp! You're drinking the other one in secret like naughty children, aren't you?" She was out the door before he could say anything else. When she returned to Solas' cabin, he eyed the wood and leaned against the table with his wine. 

"I have never carved my own from scratch," she said. "I will pay you to help me." His reaction was just to scoff.

"I'm not concerned for gold, _lethallin."_ He set his cup down and moved to his bed, bending to drag a rug in front of the fire. Then he grabbed a roll of hide off a shelf and knelt on the plush surface, gesturing her over. He unrolled the material to reveal a select few tools secured in loops, removing a carving knife from it. Then he hovered a hand over the branch.

"I sense an essence of ice in this. Do you feel it?" She passed a hand along its length, spreading her aura along it. Frost gathered where her aura passed. "It doesn't oppose your natural inclination, does it? That is, when you're not using a spirit weapon." 

"Winter and storm," she said. "And you are spirit?"

"Winter and spirit, usually," he smiled. "Now, the best way I have discovered to draw the utmost potential from an object without proper enchanting tools is to ask the aid of a spirit. Oh." He froze, hands planting in the rug.

"What?"

"To do that, we'd have to go into the Fade." She just stared at him. "Or...I may have some spare materials lying about." He rose in a liquid movement and walked over to a chest at the foot of his bed that he dug into. He removed two strips of leather—one red, one brown—a few small stones bound by wire and string, and then two strips of cloth that he held in his hands. "Fade touched lustrious cotton or ring velvet?" She grinned.

"Does the cotton have a walking bomb enchantment woven between its threads?" He looked down at the red cloth. 

"Yes?"

"Then that one." He quirked an eyebrow but said no more, gathering the materials and setting them down on the rug.

"Casting will not be as refined without the touch of a spirit, but with two mages working together it should turn out fine," he said, taking up the knife again. He began showing her how to carve away imperfections, how to correct a cut made too deep, and helped her figured out where to place her grip. All while drinking their way through Dorian's complementary bottle.

On a mostly empty stomach, it hit her faster than it did Solas. Her hand slipped a few times, making shallow cuts into her thumbs or palm mostly due to the wine. Solas decided to call it quits after he cut himself trying to show her how _not_ to cut herself. 

Unfortunately by then it was too late to go ask the apothecary to prepare a sleeping tonic and she didn't have anything left to barter for more wine. Studying past-Varric's transcript was out of the question since things had begun to blur a bit. 

Solas noticed after her stomach growled audibly.

"You drank on an empty stomach?" he said, hastily corking the bottle. There was less than a quarter left in it anyway.

"Why do you act surprised anymore?" she drawled, only a little.

"Yin was right. You are a lightweight," he said, only mildly amused. 

"When I was young, I wasn't. I'd drink whatever I could get my hands on. I learned the hard way," she paused to work some moisture into her mouth, "There was a time when one didn't have to worry about being robbed blind on the road. Or even in a bloody tavern." She grimaced. "Even slaves could indulge a bit—now most are barely afforded puddle water to drink." Solas set the bottle down slowly, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder.

"I think it has been like that for centuries now," he said. 

"It has, I know," she said, wondering why there were bells in her head. 

"Then what is this carefree time you speak of?" he said. She rolled her eyes.

"Carefree? I did not say that, but I speak of Elvhenan. There were slaves even then, though I am not surprised. I saw memories where some nobles would allow their slaves to feast. Some could have their own parties," she said. The bells were so loud now that she closed her mouth to rub her head. They dimmed some, but not by much.

"Unless you are a few millennia old and lived there yourself, how can you know that for certain?" he asked. Maordrid pushed herself to her feet and waited until he faced her fully to speak.

"Because if you know where to look in the Fade, you can find some very interesting things," she said. His shoulders did something. _Was he tensed up? Oh no. You need to leave, you idiot._

"I forget that you have walked the Fade," he said. "Although I was not aware you had dreamt of Arlathan. Perhaps sometime we may share stories. I've told Yin very few...it'd be nice to speak to someone who has actually _seen._ " She swallowed, but realised how easy it would be to tweak her memories a little to sound like a vision seen in the Fade. But...the thought of recounting memories of the heartland? Of a time before she'd donned armour permanently and friends had become brothers in arms? Remembering a time before any corruption? 

Could she even remember? She had locked that away, to avoid grief from clouding her judgment. To avoid becoming what Solas had been twisted into. 

Yrja, not Maordrid.

Her sigh bore the weight of a thousand years of wistful thoughts, kept back by discipline and duty. It was naive to think she'd ever be free of that burden.

"Maori?" She looked up at him, not realising how far she'd withdrawn.

"Yes. That sounds nice," she said. His smile was...soothing. "I know you'd like to rest. I'll leave you be now." She went to gather her staff, but Solas intervened, neatly piling it up with a gesture of his hand.

"We can finish it tomorrow," he said. She nodded and walked to the door, shrugging on her travel-worn cloak. As she stepped outside, Solas held the door. "And...Maori—" she looked at him, "Be wary of Master Pavus." 

"Don't worry, I have a knife I'll use on his moustaches," she said. "Fade well, Solas." He smiled and shook his head, shutting the door. 

When she returned to the other cabin, she slumped against the door. Dorian was still in the same spot she left him, though his bottle was only half-empty.

"Back so soon?" 

"The moon is already hidden by the mountains. It's past midnight," she said.

"Exactly. I expected you in the morning...and your clothes to be more, oh, ravished I suppose. Maybe more rips and tears? Hair pulled from its impeccable braid?" She blanched, but was not about to feed this troll.

"We were too busy dancing naked in the moonlight," she said. "You should have joined us." Dorian didn't bat a lash.

"With him? Sorry, he's not my type," he said. She scooped up his bottle, pointing the mouth at him.

"But Yin is." 

"Aiming for the top, I see," he said, not amused.

"Talk to him more. He'll have you know he hates being a religious figurehead. He's Antivan, too," she said. Dorian tapped the spine of his book.

"He _is_ dashing. Built like an ox, but about as suspicious as a cat. You know that look they give you before gouging your hand? He's worn it every time I've seen him." Maori drank from the wine before he noticed. "It probably doesn't help that he has seen one of his inner circle in my company, either." That gave her pause.

"What do you mean?" 

"Do I really need to spell it out? You—me. Just speaking together amiably has likely raised suspicions. Maker, _I'm_ suspicious! Have we met before?" 

"In another life, likely," she muttered, going for another sip but he snatched it from her grasp. "Stranger things have happened. I can find another place to sleep, if it bothers you."

"No!" he said, swinging his legs off the bed. "I mean, no. It's fine, you're fine. What matters is that they've agreed to go to Redcliffe, so it means they've looked past it for the time being. If it was a concern at all, but that's highly unlikely. Ugh. Listen to me ramble. Cheap wine." 

"You have a nice voice," she said, earning a cocky smile from him.

"Like silk spun of gold, I know. Either way, it's been...a bizarre day and I need my beauty sleep." With Dorian turning in, Maori decided to take the opportunity to do some spywork with their short down time. If the other Dorian's spell had worked right, the Yrja in this timeline should have ceased existence as soon as she entered this one. That may have thrown her people into disarray, even though they had backup plans in place should she fall in battle. She'd delayed long enough.

It was time to pay someone a surprise visit.

Once she sensed that Dorian was fully in the Fade, she removed her boots and slipped outside through the window by her cot to avoid letting too much air in. Outside, she carefully doused the area with her aura making sure Solas was asleep as well. _Clear._

Wrapping herself in her cloak, Maori set off down the path toward the tavern where a bard's music seeped into the night. Still dousing, she searched for a black spot—an area clean of conscious minds. It was by the merchant's table near the wall that she found it. There were nightwatch out, but they were either on the other side of the wall or walking the other direction. 

Careful to keep her casting aura as close to her as possible, she shed the elf in favour of a hawk and set off toward the depths of the Frostbacks. 


	16. Sea of Mountains

They had sanctuaries far and wide across Thedas. Many had been constructed hastily and in secret with the expectation that they would inevitably need to be destroyed should their operation be discovered. In fact, several hideouts they had were chock-full of destructive enchantments, lyrium bombs, and whatever else their people could bring to the table. Back when she had been Yrja in the time of the Great Rebellion, it had not been solely her idea to have a back up plan should Fen'harel turn on his own people, but several elves that were sick of corrupt figureheads. They went on to spread across the known and unknown world to build such strongholds with the most fortified, more permanent ones having been built in severely remote places, much like the location of Tarasyl'an Te'las. In many cases, it was impossible to access those places without the ability to shapeshift or a flying mount. They'd a very limited Eluvian network as well, but in her other timeline they had used them sparingly once Fen'harel had retaken nearly the entire network. 

That was not to say they were all exclusively accessible by air, underground holds were just as preferred as they were far easier to hide than a surface keep.

There had been times where a branch of their organisation had nearly been uncovered, but they had learned from Fen'harel himself how to cover themselves cleanly. Very few of her people would likely be at any of the holds—most would be re-assuming their roles as double agents, gathering information within Fen'harel's ranks and carefully relaying it back.

And she had the ultimate task of connecting everyone together to tell them what she had seen in the future. 

Hours later, she all but tumbled into the cradle of mountains. She was tired and the nice haze of drink had worn off in the cold. Taking shelter beneath a rocky overhang, she used her sharp vision as a hawk to search the area for the entrance to the Frostback safe house. She knew there was an illusion covering it that subtly pushed one's eyes away from its location. 

She shed her feathers and straightened to her full height, casting a domed barrier to stave off the winds of the high mountains and a small flame to light her way. She climbed up and down, eyes scanning everything until something caught her eye. A small section in a massive crag wasn't reflecting the light of the flame, which she'd caught in her peripheral view. Excited, she bounded toward it and passed right through what had looked to be just an icy bulge in the mountain. Within the illusion was another obstacle—a roughly hewn stone arch that looked to lead to nothing but rock.

_"Manaan ea alastarasyl, emma gara. Emma enasalin'amelan. Ar nisathe ea Elvhenan."_ The stone hummed beneath her palm and a presence reached out, intermingling with her offered magical aura before withdrawing with a sense of satisfaction. The stone vanished, revealing a lit passageway deep within. A blue spirit in shape of a dwarf stood on the other side. "It is good to see you, Pietas."  Duty.

" _Ah! You remember my name!"_ the spirit said.

"How could I not? You've guarded our doors for an aeon," she said. Pietas chuckled.

" _Been that long?_ " Duty shook his head. " _You ought to change the passphrase to something more befitting. You've shown that you're as bound to your duty and your cause as much as someone bound to a geas.You aren't dust—you're a paragon to your people. I have been honoured to serve you and yours."_ She smiled at Pietas and bowed reverently.

"As am I, Pietas." The spirit-dwarf flapped a hand and glanced down the stairs.

" _I won't hold you. The path is lit. Farewell, falon._ " With that, Pietas vanished and Maori headed down the steps and through a few more tunnels with illusions before she finally reached the main chamber.

It was empty. 

_Except it's not..._

She spun, a summoned dagger in her hand. The tip stopped at their jugular, but there had already been a wicked looking crossbow aimed at her stomach.

"By the Stone! So it is the fucking Commander of the Elu'bel!" The dwarf planted the crossbow on its butt wearing a smile that spanned ear to ear. "You're not dead!" 

"Good to see you too, Firra," she said. "I'd feared they thought me dead." Firra carelessly tossed the crossbow onto a table and grabbed two tankards that she ran to fill at a massive keg against a wall.

"Aye, most don't believe it, but those that do think you were at that Conclave. Thought the Commander finally got too close. But you didn't!" Firra thrust the tankard into her hands and gestured for Maori to follow. They walked down a set of stairs and into another stone room, though this one was more outfitted with furniture and research materials. There was a broken Eluvian shimmering at the end of one dark tunnel and another that led to a small bathing chamber. The place was outfitted to be a permanent post for those staying there. As far as she knew, Firra's ancestors had all served in these mountains for as long as she could remember. 

"Did anyone ever tell you in detail the counter-plans regarding Fen'harel's movements?" Maori asked after taking a long draw from her beer. "Including the most extreme ones, should we fall into dire straits."

"There were a ton of plans. You elves like to complicate things," Firra said. Maori sighed. 

"Did they think I died or...just disappeared?" she asked. Firra sighed and played with the end of one her four braids.

"Y'disappeared. The idea that you died at the Conclave only surfaced when they couldn't find a body. Some people think you went missing before, but it's up in the air."

"If I recall correctly, I should have been following Corypheus." Firra nodded.

"You talk as though you weren't there," the dwarf said, one eye narrowing. Maordrid smiled bitterly.

"Because I wasn't. I'm from another timeline." There, she said it. Firra sat back and immediately took a drink from her tankard.

"That's the dire straits thing you were talkin' about. But how?" 

"In my timeline, it was our first time enacting any of our plans against Fen'harel. We did our best to point the Inquisition in the right direction, fed them information. But they were too slow to pick up the pieces, so I was forced to step out and contact one of their own. By then, Fen'harel was too far ahead and we were forced to cut corners. We tried to tailor the spell to take me back before this all happened—before Fen'harel's awakening...but it seems the Breach's pull was too strong. Now I'm here." Firra whistled loud and long.

"That means things got real bad then, in the future," the dwarf said, eyes distant. "We failed?" Maordrid thought back to the terrible first dream she'd had upon arriving in the current timeline. _It wasn't real. Dorian erased that timeline. There is only one now and that's what I have to believe._

"I wouldn't say that we failed, because I'm here and we have time we didn't have before. I know things that I didn't back then that will give us an edge," she said, picking her words carefully. "It will only be a failure if we gave up entirely. When I took up this mantle, I vowed that I would see all of Thedas safe from the Evanuris and the others. Even if it costs me my life." Firra looked her in the eyes, a fire of defiance in her own.

"You know your return will spark a wildfire of hope when we get word out," Firra said. "They'll be eager to get you whatever you need to stay ahead. We'd best get this information to Elgalas and Shiveren." Those named being her brother and sister in arms. There had been another, long ago named Ghimyean but he had gone missing before the Great Slumber. Solas would most definitely recognise them by face. Elgalas was a spy for Solas in Orlais and Shiveren was all over the continent constantly on missions gathering information—and then spreading it to their people. Now that they had a seed in the Inquisition, she knew they had a chance unlike last time.

"I have a few things in mind," she said. Firra nodded enthusiastically and sat on the edge of her seat. "First, I need you to get a message to Elgalas. She needs to set to work finding a way into the Eluvian network before Fen'harel overrides it. Briala would be a good place to start. She's some kind of spy in Empress Celene's court. They were lovers, I think," Maori unclasped the transcript from her belt and displayed it before Firra. "Here's what we learned last time. At some point I will likely see Briala myself, but acquiring the Eluvians will take some time." She allowed Firra to take a few notes on the pages allotted to the Eluvians then moved on to Shiveren's assignment. "I want Shiv to send some of our agents to seed into the Inquisition. The Circle mages will be joining us from Redcliffe soon, so that will be a good time to sneak in any of our mages." Maordrid fell silent as the next page she turned had a drawing of red lyrium. Firra glanced at it and then her.

"What?" the dwarf asked.

"Red lyrium. I...I think you should write your contacts in Orzammar to send someone down to Keeper Miradal. I want a full report from her." The dwarf paused in her notes.

"You think they're at risk?" she asked. Maordrid tapped her fingernails on the table.

"I don't know. But I think _something_ is going to happen...or is in the process of doing so. It didn't happen in my timeline but I saw something that indicated that it might," Maori sighed, "There was a reason why we sealed the tunnels all those years ago. I wasn't there...but I heard enough." Firra stared into space turning her words over but eventually wrote it down. 

"Anything else?" the dwarf asked.

"No, I think that will keep you busy for a time. When I travel closer to the other bases I will get in touch with them myself. Just...get those messages out and tell everyone I'm still alive," she said. The two of them finished their beer in silence. As the dwarf refilled their tankards, Firra perked up.

"Hey, I remembered something Inaean was talking about a long while ago. She said you and a few others have been trying to shapeshift into dragons for millennia?" Maordrid laughed.

"Yes, it started as a petty competition...but during the Rebellion we realised how beneficial it could be for us in the long run," she said.

"Why didn't every ancient elf learn how to turn into a dragon? If I could do it, you could bet your sweet arse I'd do it in a heartbeat!" Firra chortled and swallowed some beer, still laughing.

"It's because that form was reserved for only the highest ranking of my kind. The Evanuris, the Forgotten Ones, and anyone else that gained favour with them. It became forbidden once the Evanuris took to calling themselves gods...and anyone that tried to learn the form was perceived as a threat," Maordrid smiled, tilting her head back as she remembered those days. "It didn't stop us. It became a childish thrill to engage in something that could get us utterly destroyed."

"But did you? Turn into a dragon? What about the others? Did they?" Firra asked, sitting on the edge of her seat. Maordrid sighed.

"Two of us, myself and Inaean's older brother Ghimyean made it further than the others. I can shift into one without wings and I can't breathe magic. Ghimyean could shift perfectly into a Sandy Howler and was figuring out how to breathe fire _and_ storm. Leave it to him to go beyond. He was the leader we needed." Firra cast her a concerned look.

"And what? Why did you stop? What happened?" Maordrid bit her lip. _Oh, Ghimyean._

" We don't know. Ghimyean was going to teach me how to finish the form...but he disappeared before he could. This was during Fen'harel's rebellion. Some think he was captured and killed, others believe Fen'harel killed him for other reasons," she said.

"What do you think?" Firra asked, her voice soft. Maordrid smiled bitterly. 

"That wherever he is, he is laughing that I still can't fly or breathe ice." Firra snorted but then covered her mouth, embarrassed.

"Well, I didn't mean to dredge up those feelings, but Inaean told me before Ghimyean disappeared that he told her about some old statue in the Frostback Basin that taught him how to shift," Firra leaned closer, dropping her voice to an excited whisper, "Inaean's been searchin' for years, she said. Finally found it but the statue won't teach her. Said it knew she was the sister of Ghimyean but it asked for you in perfect description." Maordrid sat back in her chair, bewildered. That was new. And Ghimyean had never mentioned a statue. But then again, he had never told her how he had learned. Had he known something was going to happen to him? "She thinks it'll teach you! And I'll bet once she finds out you're alive, she'll take you right to it." Maordrid nodded, deep in thought. She couldn't shake the suspicion that Ghimyean was possibly alive and had been all these years. Or perhaps he really was dead and only the statue knew what had happened to him. Or maybe it didn't. Her mind was racing.

"Yes. I—get word to Inaean. Dragons are good," she said. Firra nodded, scratching in another note. "Anything else to report? Do you need me to do anything?" Firra tapped her lower lip, thinking.

"Nope! Just eager to get on some of this stuff. It'll be tough, but I've been bored in these mountains. I imagine with the Commander back, some will flock back here though," the dwarf said. Maordrid only half-finished her mug. It would only make it more difficult to return to Haven. Firra had some fresh bread and soup she'd been making before Maori had arrived that she offered to the elf. While she gratefully spooned hot soup into her gullet, Firra disappeared for a bit only to return with a bulging satchel that she threw onto the table. She proceeded to point out a few small pouches of currencies for Orlais and Ferelden and then pulled out a set of light armour that had likely belonged to another elf. Chest leathers set with mail, silverite-backed gauntlets, ancient style greaves, and a leather gorget with a barrier enchantment. It wasn't ideal, but it would tide her over until she could find a good blacksmith in these lands. Maori thanked the dwarf profusely after she'd outfitted herself and then her host walked her back to the hidden entrance to see her off. Light was already returning to the skies when they surfaced so Maori shifted into a large raven and flew off back toward Haven. 

And the raven dreamed of being a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Manaan ea alastarasyl, emma gara. Emma enasalin'amelan. Ar nisathe ea Elvhenan_ =(loosely) 'Sea of mountains, I come to you. I am a warrior of the arcane. I am the dust of Elvhenan.'  
> Or something like that.
> 
> Elu'bel= (literally) the many secret ...(those that are secret)  
> was aiming for "those that hide in secrets" but settled for this instead.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I am **pumped** for dragons.


	17. In Hushed Whispers (pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a big long chapter because I'm sorry.

When Haven came into sight over the ridge of the mountains, Maori kited all the way down, flapping her wings only when she passed over Haven itself. She alighted upon a tree just outside of Haven's gates, to the right of the training yard and just before what appeared to be an abandoned cabin. Seeing the area clear of mages or people in general, except for the stray nug, she landed in the snow and shifted, unfolding with a groan as she stretched toward the sky. 

Then she trudged across the frozen ground toward the training dummies. The village was just beginning to stir from its rest, but several soldiers were already out and about performing exercises. Maori weaved her way through silently, snatching a stray practice sword propped against a barrel before approaching a lonely dummy. 

It had been far too long since she'd held a material sword and even longer since she actually fought with one. Her old mentors would be appalled. Back in Elvhenan, most people had fought entirely with magic while very few used weapons, but even those had never been without enchantments. Some forged ridiculous ornamental weapons meant to be shown off at balls and soirees—forgotten the moment it was over—and others were so unwieldy the only sense was to put them on display. Those that didn't serve as guards or temple sentinels but carried weapons had often been made fun of. Because why would a powerful elf use a sharp piece of metal unless he was utterly abysmal with magic?

Such had been her mindset in the early days, until she'd been set right by a proper mentor. _One day, you may find yourself without your magic and then where will you be? They mock because they are afraid. Whether that is because they fear their beloved magic might not be enough or because they are paranoid that someone carrying a sword at their waist does not need magic to succeed. The only other reason available is that they're idiots._ It hadn't convinced her outright, but the idea of adding another skillset to her arsenal had appealed to her frightfully delicate ego back then. But even to this day, she found swords to be untrustworthy if they were not weighted and balanced _precisely._ Her spirit weapons were always perfectly balanced and if she was careful, they wouldn’t shatter during battle. It was likely she would never grow out of her discomfort for plain steel, but she had promised her deceased mentor she would never stop.

As soon as she swung the sword, it flew from her grip and bounced off of the dummy. Flushing red, she hoped no one had seen and stooped to recover it quickly. She readjusted into a hammer-grip with her thumb just over the crossguard. Then, she began practising her point control as well as flourishes, spins, and thrusts. The blunt steel went flying yet again, this time over the dummy's shoulder when a voice from behind startled her from her concentration. 

"Sorry!" A man with a black and red fur mantle hurried past her and hastily scooped up the sword to hand back to her. 

"Ah, Commander Cullen, I didn't realise you were watching me," she said in a bleak tone. The man's already cold-flushed cheeks turned redder. 

"Not like that, I just noticed an unfamiliar figure in the yard," he said, then rubbed his wrist in a manner entirely too meekly for a man of his rank. She almost laughed, but then that would make her a hypocrite. Well, more than she was already.

"Well then, is there something you need?" she said. He stared at her blankly for a moment but then sighed.

"I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I wanted to set things right." She looked at him without tilting her head, mouth a thin line. Her and Templars did _not_ get along. She distinctly remembered Past-Cullen at the gathering at Dorian's estate doubting her and her plan. He hadn't trusted her at all. That wasn't even touching on the reasons why she didn't like Chantry Templars.

"You were content to ignore me until now," she said, the fog that appeared before her face clipped with her words. 

"Ignore? That's not the truth at all! You're actually quite difficult to track down," he said. "I heard you'd gone on a mission with the Herald and Cassandra and when you all returned you were nowhere to be seen." She nodded, turning the sword in her hand idly.

"And if I was but another body in the ranks you wouldn't have bothered. But because I have accompanied them, I am suddenly worth talking to." It was petulant to act this way. _So childish_. But she _despised_ his kind. 

"I'm going to have to respectfully disagree with you. I take the time to learn the names of every soldier serving beneath the Inquisition. I would have come to you at some point," he said. "Please, we can't have this...whatever this is. The world needs us and to be there for it we need to get along. Wouldn't you agree?" She nodded begrudgingly, but some of the anger bled from her. She _was_ judging him based on a different life and a few words that had been said. Then again, she had never claimed to be beyond petty emotions.

"What would you have of me?" she finally said. He visibly relaxed, then half bowed.

"I have heard your name from others, but a formal introduction would be nice," he said. 

"Maordrid," she said, returning an even slighter bow. "And you are Cullen." He laughed. 

"Indeed, I am," he said. "And...I've heard a lot about your skill, much of it seems to have gotten muddled. The rumour, that is, not your skill." He blushed again and averted his eyes to the sword. "You're a mage...but I've heard you fight with a sword and seeing you here now, I don't think I've ever seen a battle-mage."

"Have you ever heard of an Arcane Warrior?" she said, wondering if the Commander was always this dizzying with his words. 

"Ah—yes, I think the Hero of Ferelden may have been one. But that's the only time I've ever heard that title," he said. "So...do they fight with enchanted swords?" She laughed, digging the blunt weapon into the dirt.

"No. But I have heard of some doing just that." She summoned her favourite spear in her other hand, watching with pride as it shimmered into existence. " _This_ is my weapon of choice." Amazed, Cullen reached out, but then stopped until she nodded. He touched the spear as though his hand would pass right through, so his fingers jammed into the shaft. She chuckled, he laughed in embarrassment. 

"I don't understand, doesn't this take willpower to maintain? Do you tire faster than say a normal soldier during a fight?" he said. 

"With the wrong technique, yes, it could weigh on you. But there are ways of tying off a conjuration or severing it from the caster so that it doesn't. That allows me to cast while I fight," she said, "Although doing that makes it vulnerable to shattering like a normal weapon."

"Maker's Breath, that's...a lot of power for a single mage," he said, and she sensed his fear. That same old Templar fear that got so many killed.

"Don't misconstrue what I am saying. This takes decades of practice and severe discipline. I've spent my life mastering my skill," she said. Cullen seemed to accept the answer with grace, much to her surprise. 

"Besides the time it takes, why aren't there more...Arcane Warriors?" he asked. She gave him a bitter smile.

"Because the way is largely extinct. What little knowledge of it remains has been bastardised by those calling themselves Knight Enchanters," she said. 

"Lady Vivienne is a Knight Enchanter."

"So I've heard." Cullen reached out and touched the spear again. She huffed and pushed it into his hands. It was funny, as he seemed to think it would simply dissipate despite what she said earlier. After a moment of him looking it over in awe, she untied the enchantment slyly and changed it into a straightsword. He yelped at the sudden change and nearly dropped it.

"It's very well balanced for something that isn't real," he said, lifting it so that it was level with his eyes. 

"Why don't you swing it at the dummy and see how _real_ it is," she said flatly. And he did. The very fake blade left a very fake deep cut in the side of the burlap. 

"Sometimes I say stupid things and regret them immediately after," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I am suddenly very glad we are on the same side. I imagine your enemies would rather face darkspawn." She waved her hand and let the sword vanish. "I would like to see what you're fully capable of, sometime. Perhaps not in a life threatening situation, but...I think you could teach me—and the soldiers—some techniques." She hesitated.

"I've already agreed to teach Yin," she said. Cullen grinned.

"Good," he said, then cast a glance behind him, "Well, I've taken up enough of your time. I'll see you around, Maordrid." She bowed and he inclined his head, hurrying off to meet a runner with a stack of papers.

For only an hour more did she practice before exhaustion crept up through her limbs. She eventually conceded to it and dragged herself up the steps and toward her and Dorian's shared cabin. As she opened the door of the cabin, she heard a door behind closing and glanced to see Solas leaving his. Their eyes locked. He must have seen the exhaustion on her face because his lips parted as if to say something, but he decided against it and merely nodded at her. She returned it and slipped inside, removing armour and letting it drop to the ground before crawling into bed and welcoming the blanket of encroaching darkness.

  


\-------------------------

  


A soft rapping drew her consciousness just beneath her eyelids, but she didn’t stir. It had taken too long to get to this level of warmth. Her feet were still cold but she was too far gone to draw a warmth glyph.

_TK-TK-TK._ She groaned, settling farther into the itchy blankets. A sudden blast of evil cold air raced through the cabin, chilling her nose. 

“Do you determine to sleep until we return from Redcliffe?” a velvet voice asked from nearby. Maori shot up, clutching her blankets and squinting.

“What time is it? What is today?” she mumbled, throwing the blanket off and sliding from bed.

“It is before dawn of the next day and your cabin mate is currently getting his breakfast and couldn’t be bothered to walk back in the cold to rouse you,” Solas said. Maori blearily eyed the armour she had shucked off, trying to form a plan of action. It had sat on the ground all night, which meant it would be freezing against her body. 

“They’re leaving today?” she said, clenching her jaw as she slid into the cool armour.

“Leliana’s people have proved resourceful and quick, so yes,” he said, watching her with mild amusement as she struggled. He cleared his throat, watching her trying to grab a strap to buckle. She rolled her eyes and he stepped up, grabbing the leather and feeding it through its buckle at her shoulder. “How was your sleep?

“Black, as I meant for it to be,” she said with relief.

“You didn’t resort to drinking yourself into unconsciousness?” he mused, stepping away as she handled the rest.

“No, I exercised my way into it,” she said, swinging on her cloak and her pack. They left the cabin, walking together toward the tavern. Inside, Maori settled with snatching herself a half loaf of warm bread and honey, noting that Dorian was already gone. Solas rejoined her outside as she was biting into her bread. They approached the gates in silence to see the group of spies that would be accompanying them to Redcliffe and the rest of the party already standing outside with their mounts. 

Then, they left Haven with the core group riding together while Leliana’s spies went on ahead to avoid being seen in company of the Herald.

Maordrid assumed her usual position at the back and was surprised when Dorian joined her, looking rather uncomfortable on his horse.

“Thanks for waking me up,” she said after a moment.

“Ah yes, I thought you owed me a thank you for sending your elf to rouse you,” he said, a smug grin on his face. 

“ _My_ elf? I am sorry, last I checked we were not in Tevinter and I am not a slave owner or a human.” With a thread of magic, she pulled a small handful of snow from an embankment, hiding it in her palm out of sight. “But speaking of elves, why aren’t you up there getting to know Yin? Does he not wish to discuss sneaking tactics with you?” 

“We did all of that this morning before you were awake, darling. Do catch up,” he said, shifting in his saddle. “And don’t you think about tossing that snow at me, I felt you casting.” She threw it at his shoulder anyway, but it hit a small shield. “I told you.”

“I will have other opportunities.” He hummed, but said nothing more.

“Where did you go last night?” The question took her off guard. _How?_

“Out?” she said. “I am having trouble sleeping.” Dorian looked at her and frowned. 

“Should drink more wine,” he said. She nodded.

“I likely will now that we are out here.” 

“Don’t encourage her,” Solas said from ahead. 

“We already discussed this. We secure our safety and _then_ worry about what’s going on in the Fade,” Maori said, glaring at the back of his head

“That does not mean I have to like it,” Solas shot back. 

“What in the name of Andraste’s flaming knickers are you two on about?” Dorian said. 

“It seems a spirit of some kind has taken to trying to kill me every time I sleep,” she finally said. 

“So…a demon? Are you possessed?” he asked. Maori sighed. She’d forgotten about the prejudices and misconceptions so many people had. 

“Do I seem possessed?’ she deadpanned. Dorian eyed her critically.

“A bit, yes,” he said. She snorted.

“Spirits have been thrown into chaos with the Breach. It is no surprise that one has become confused and attached itself to you,” Solas interjected.

“Sounds like a demon to me,” Dorian said, hugging his cloak closer to his body.

“It’s too early to argue about the nature of spirits,” Maori said before Solas could explode. She saw his jaw move as he shut his mouth. “But I can assure you, Master Pavus,  demons are just another misunderstanding of the Chantry.”

“And I can assure you that I know exactly what I’m talking about and know what demons are. I’ve firsthand experience too, you know,” Dorian said. “Tell me, have you trained anywhere? A Circle?” 

“Going to pull the _I’m the privileged, educated Tevinter_ card on me?” she said. She really didn’t want to get on Dorian’s bad side, but she also didn’t want him to be misinformed when she had seen how far he had come in the alternate timeline. Maybe it would take Yin’s open mind to convince Dorian of certain things.

“I’m just saying that I have quite a bit of experience and knowledge under my belt. I’m a very  good mage,” he said.

“And I am saying that Tevinter does not know the absolute truths of the world. No one does,” she said. “But there are other ideas and we should all take them into account, adding onto our own arsenals of knowledge and wisdom.”

“Well said,” Solas said.

“So you’ll listen, even though I’m the privileged Tevinter?” Dorian said, obviously still wounded. She rubbed her eyelids, exasperated.

“I already know what Tevinter and the rest of the world thinks about magic and spirits. But yes, I will listen to _you_ ,” she said. “I am not here to wound your ego or tell you everything you know is false. Please, hear me.” _Although most of what you know of the past really is wrong. I’m sorry._

“I do, Maori,” he said, and then was silent. 

“Thank you,” she said. The quiet after was more thoughtful than awkward, surprisingly. She noticed Dorian had been staring at Yin’s profile for a long time and was relieved when he finally heeled his horse to join the Antivan-Dalish. Yin was rigid when Dorian initiated conversation, but eventually his posture relaxed some and a smile fixed itself to his mouth. 

The group made good time getting down from the Frostbacks and into the Hinterlands before sundown, but unfortunately, it was black out before Cassandra finally called a stop for the night. They couldn’t be more than three hours from Redcliffe, but she supposed the next day they would be going straight to the Keep.

Under light of torches and magelights, they set up camp and the first watch, as usual, was Maori and Yin.

Yin sat before the fire practising glyphs in the dirt when she approached, crossing her arms and gazing into the fire. Something had been gnawing at her for the past few days, but she wasn’t sure how to go about confronting him with it. 

“You look like you have something in your mouth. Spit it out,” Yin said without looking up. 

“Is something bothering you?” she decided on. 

“There’s always something bothering me. I think that’s the general theme these days,” he said.

“You know what I mean.” He kicked dirt over his latest glyph, still avoiding her gaze.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. 

“Yin, please. You’ve been avoiding me.” He finally looked up, eyes unreadable. He gestured over to the tent that Dorian had disappeared into and her heart sank.

“You can’t blame me for that,” he whispered. “After Redcliffe, I just couldn’t shake that feeling you were—are up to something. Do you know each other?” Maori slowly lowered herself onto a log across from him, considering her words carefully.

“No, we don’t. I know how it looks—”

“You talk to each other like friends. And now you’re staying in the same cabin!” Her temper flared.

“And whose fault is that? He’s from Tevinter and no one wants anything to do with him - nor the so-called demon that fell from the Fade. You told me to find somewhere else and Dorian asked _me,_ ” she said, leaning forward. “Something in you believes that he’s genuine, otherwise you wouldn’t have decided to listen to him.” The shadow of a sneer sat on the Herald’s face as he stared at the dirt. She tossed a log into the fire angrily. _How was I so blind to this before? I should have seen this coming._

“Why didn’t you go to Solas? Cassandra? Literally anyone else?” he asked. “Now that you’re _buddied_ with him—”

“I did. I asked around and people were less than helpful. It is easy for you because you have a nice green light in your hand to help you along. Everyone else sees the ears and looks elsewhere,” she snapped. “Dorian found me first. By the time Solas came around it was too late. Yin, please, you can’t believe me to have ill intentions?” His glance only lasted a heartbeat. 

“At heart, I don’t,” he finally said, “but my interest lies in protecting innocent people…and I can’t just not suspect you because…”

“Then why did you bring me along?” she asked. 

“To keep an eye on you,” he said. She noticed now he was sitting up straight. He was treating her like a threat. 

“So you tell me you think I am a spy and now that I know, don’t you think I could tailor my behaviour to disprove that?” she said with half a laugh.

“I don’t want to believe it,” he snapped, though his voice was little more than a whisper. “That is why I am telling you. I trust you. It’s good faith.” She sat back, the shadows obscuring her face.

“I am not working with Tevinter - I am working for the Inquisition. Like everyone else, I am here to help,” she said, “You may lock me up until the Breach is closed and the perpetrator is found, if you so wish.” The Herald laughed bitterly.

“What good would that do? Spies have ways of getting information to their people even when behind bars.”

“Then turn me over to the Templars and be done with it,” she said. “They will pull the truth from me, the same truth I am telling you now.” Yin looked like he had been slapped.

“I would not do that to you,” he said, sounding stricken. The lie burned on her own tongue, but she held strong. “I’m sorry, Maori. You’re right.” She sighed.

“Do not be sorry. You have every right to feel as you do. I could not bear to have this…thing looming above us,” she said. Yin looked at her and smiled genuinely for the first time in days.

“Me neither, _lethallin_. I am glad you spoke up. I likely would have let it fester,” he said with shame in his voice. She said nothing, chewing her lip and staring into the forest in thought. There was a perfectly flat spot not far from the camp and a plan formed in her mind.

“Since we are sleepless, would you like to learn some basics of…what are you calling it? Rift Warrior?” Yin’s entire face lit up, moving from the log to follow her into the darkness. She let fly a dozen magelights to float above her chosen area and cleared the ground of stones before facing him.

“Where do we start?” he asked, as she paced the ground. 

“It will be difficult, in the beginning. The Arcane Warrior is different than the Knight-Enchanters of this age,” she said. “You will exhaust easily until you figure out how to manage your mana properly. And there is no one way to do it.” She slowly summoned what was called the Aegis and a shimmering purple dome swirled into existence around her. “I want you to start with this. It will be exhausting to maintain, like trying to hold a door shut against a flood. But once it comes time to learn the Spirit Blade, it will be as easy as opening that same door and letting it flood in. Think of it as conditioning muscles.” Yin nodded, eyes flicking this way and that across the shield. Suddenly, a brilliant burst of sunset colours erupted from Yin in half a dome. She stopped casting and gawked at him.

“Well, I think that’s part of one,” he said, stepping back to look at his. He clenched his hands and brought them together, closing his eyes. “I think…it’s almost like blowing bubbles. You’ve gotta get the right viscosity for a good, complete one. Mine feels…brittle, too watery.” She smiled. Perhaps there was a prodigy in him. She’d heard in the other timeline of his magical prowess, but had never seen it for herself. It had taken her years to maintain an Aegis that kept out simple magical attacks, or even just a tossed spoon. Maori knelt down, snatching a rock up off the ground and tossing it at his shield. It hit the barrier and slowed as if passing through jelly before dropping through to the other side.

“At least it is thick, like a good gambeson,” she said, “But you will make it stronger than steel in time and perhaps even modify it to deflect attacks back at them.” Yin gritted his teeth, still holding on. The Aegis curved just over his head and widened some, but faltered and then burst, vanishing in a flash of sunset. “Good.”

“Really?” His excitement was almost palpable.

“For a child, perhaps,” she said with a snort. He immediately began casting it again, taking the challenge. “You will exhaust yourself like that and managing even a flame will be difficult tomorrow.” He sighed and let it dissipate again. “I want you to feel the Veil. There are many textures, even sounds it makes and you must learn how to find individual threads through the thick and blurry ones to pull magic from the other side. In places it is thin, we are at our best. We fold the silk to travel across the battlefield, taking down targets without expending energy. We expand an Aegis to protect riders against volleys of arrows, never sacrificing a life, fighting beside warriors while hardly breaking a sweat.” Here, the Veil was like fine linen—not thick and threads were easily found—and with well-practised invisible hands, she parted the weave and pulled the Fade around her, cloaking her body from view. Yin gasped. “And if we make ourselves indispensable to our allies, we can do wonders.” When she reappeared, she put herself almost toe to toe with him.

“You _have_ to teach me to do that. Is that like…Fade stepping…except it’s like the step never ends?” Maordrid tried to hold in her laughter, but it crept up until it burst out in a few quick puffs.

“Yes, it is a bit. Except stepping is with less finesse than the cloak. But let’s focus on the Aegis?” Yin nodded and she resumed talking him through trying to perform a proper shield, and then added in teaching him the _clarity of combat_ to try and lessen the wear of maintaining the Aegis. Doing both at the same time required learning how to split one’s mind into sections. A good warrior could fight, cast, shield, and cloak, but only all of that in bursts. A master could prove a challenge to an Evanuris, face to face…and then there were the Evanuris themselves. 

Yin lasted longer than she’d expected and even formed a full dome. The man was formidable, she thought, and determined. She wondered what he would have been like in Arlathan with an unlimited lifespan. 

When she concluded the lesson it was when the Herald was swaying on his feet and unable to keep his eyes open like a child. She ushered him to a tent and resumed her watch, content with remaining awake until it was time to march on, but that was short-lived when Solas emerged from his tent with a stern expression. She was seeing a lot of him lately, and the nervousness that settled in her stomach each time was like a ball of startled moths. He rushed into the shadows looking frantic, and at first she was suspicious until she realised he was likely relieving himself. He came back moments later adjusting his vest with a frown.

“How long have you been on watch?” he asked, voice still husky with sleep. “Yin was asleep before his head hit the pillow.” She tried gauging the time by sky, but the night was overcast with thick clouds.

“Not long, I don’t think,” she said. 

“I’ve been feeling surges of magic for at least three hours. What were you two doing?” he asked, throwing a log onto the dying fire. With an undulating motion of his hand, it caught flame.

“Lessons.” Solas looked toward his and Yin’s shared tent, blinking.

“I gather they went well?”

“Yes. He’s quite skilled. He surprised me,” she said, splaying her fingers at the fire. 

“He is full of many. A rare spirit, I think,” he said with fondness. He was silent for a moment as he took a seat on Yin’s vacated log. “You, on the other hand, are a stubborn one. I’m relieving you of your watch.” She scoffed.

“I can’t do that,” she said, “And you know why.” 

“I can help.” She shook her head. 

“No.” He gave a heavy sigh, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand.

“Can you at least meditate? Draw strength from the Fade?” he asked. She pondered the idea, then shrugged. Her mind was weary but after the lesson, she’d found herself stirred up and wanting to practice more. Maori settled flat on the ground, crossing her legs and twisting her fingers into a meditational position in her lap. “You’re going to do it out here?” She cracked an eye open at him.

“Problem?” He pursed his lips then shook his head.

“Carry on. Who am I to stop you?” She smiled and then settled into a simple meditation that left her barely grazing the Fade. And finally, the world and its complications fell away, leaving her within a void of simplicity.

By the time her heart slowed and her breathing rate had lessened to that of a turtle’s, she was tapped on the shoulder. Slowly, she emerged from the depths, opening her eyes to a greying world. Dorian crouched before her holding two bowls of porridge.

“You elves and your mysteries,” he said, shoving one in her hand. “But you’re a strange one.” She took a bite and swallowed. Dorian shifted to sit beside her and the two of them watched as camp was struck. “Were you up all night again?” She nodded once, shovelling food into her mouth. “How does your performance not suffer from lack of sleep? If I go two nights, I start to worry about misfired spells.”

“In my past experiences, I have had no choice. Life or death. If I go to sleep, there’s no telling if I will wake up, especially with what happened last time,” she said. Dorian chewed in thought, staring at the others packing up.

“And what exactly happened?” She stared at him until he met her gaze. “You haven’t told anyone?” She shook her head. 

“It does not matter right now anyway. We are on a far more important mission. Let’s help the others so we can get going.” Dorian looked like he wanted to press for more details but fortunately, the mage seemed concerned enough with their impending situation to let it go.

The group mounted up and set on the road by the time the sun was rising, making excellent time to Redcliffe. 

All that while, Maordrid, in terms she’d heard used by various foul-mouthed dwarves, was shitting herself. Varric’s transcript lay open propped between the horn of her saddle and her legs. The events surrounding Redcliffe were murky. Dorian and the Herald were thrust into the future because Dorian countered Alexius’s spell and had barely managed to return with their lives. Inquisitor Yin had spoken in detail of what he had seen and how his friends had acted in the future. Addled and weakened by red lyrium. If present-Yin met alternate-future-her, there was no telling what she would say under the influence of its corruption. She would have to risk going with Yin to the future and hope Dorian could get them all back safely.

_Fenedhis, what am I doing?_

Her brain was numb when they met up with Leliana’s spies. It was all happening too quickly. Maybe she could make an excuse to leave—no, too late, they were already riding toward the Keep and leaving Dorian behind with the agents. Too many had already seen her face. No matter if she ran now, she might be captured in the dark future and her secrets spilt anyway. 

The portcullis opened before them and their mounts were escorted away. Maordrid stared up at the Keep—not with fear or determination, but with duty.

_And so it begins._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And so our adventure begins_  
>  I miss Fable.


	18. In Hushed Whispers (pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided I'm going to split this into a couple of smaller parts because I _think_ it works better that way? There should be 4 parts? 
> 
> Hope you like :>

Redcliffe castle was too quiet for a place of its size. None of the arl’s servants were present, but all of Alexius’s were. Each man wore the draconian-like garb of the Venatori and everyone that they passed stared them down. The mages of their group gripped their staves and Cassandra was practically part of Yin for how close she stuck to him. Maordrid kept her magic in a charged ball within her core, ready to strike even though she knew they would face no fight. Solas dropped back to walk nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with her, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.

“I do not like this,” he whispered to her. She didn’t say anything, listening instead as a crier approached Yin and Cassandra before the throne room.

“The magister’s invitation was for Master Lavellan alone. The rest will wait here,” the pompous lout sneered. Yin leaned against his staff, but somehow managed to make it project an air of intimidation. He was a tall, muscular elf that towered over the human. She saw the man swallow at Yin’s roguish smile.

“You’d deny the council of the Inquisition? We came to negotiate and I’m not authorised to make decisions by myself,” he said. “So, would you kindly, my friend—announce us?” The man raised his chin, glaring at Yin before turning on his heel and leading the way. Two horn-masked guards flanked their group as they passed into the throne room and up the stairs.

“My lord magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived,” the man said, stepping to the side of the dais. Alexius rose from the throne with a smile fixed to his face, eyes surveying Yin’s company before settling on the Herald himself. Maordrid caught sight of Felix standing off to the side behind his father. The young man felt her gaze and looked at her, eyebrows drawing down in thought. She quickly looked away.

“My friend! It’s so good to see you again,” he said, “And your associates, of course. I”m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.” 

“Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” The Grand Enchanter seemed to materialise out of nowhere, approaching the gathering with a fire in her eyes. Alexius turned his greasy smile to her, radiating condescension.

“Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.” The slight elf did not back down, nor did she show any signs of doing so. Alexius’s face grew darker until Yin cleared his throat. 

“If the Grand Enchanter wants to be part of these talks, then I welcome her as a guest of the Inquisition,” Yin said, his voice brooking no room for argument. Again, he seemed to loom over everyone in the room. She wondered if he was casting some kind of charm or illusion over the room. Alexius disguised his displeasure by turning around and slithering back over to his stolen throne.

“So, you came to me because the Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach. What shall you offer in exchange?” Yin and Varric of the past had done a phenomenal job of recounting almost everything that had been said in their meeting with Alexius. She could only hope that everything was this detailed for all of the major events. 

“My powerful friend, you are so quick to get down to business. Can we not open with something else? Get to know each other first? I’d love to know more about your time magic. That is fascinating to me, as a mage,” Yin said. Alexius smiled, eyes glinting in the light.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean,” the magister said and Maori almost scoffed.

“He knows everything, father,” Felix said, stepping around the throne to face his father. Alexius’s face crumpled.

“Felix, what have you done?” 

“What any concerned son would do. He has reason to believe you’ve become entangled in something terrible,” Yin continued, again leaning on his staff and crossing one leg over the other. 

“So speaks the thief. Do you think you can turn my son against me?” Alexius said, and Maori could almost see the snake’s tongue flicking between his teeth. He began to rise from his seat again and the flames of the hearth behind him seemed to brighten. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and you think you’re in control? You’re nothing but a mistake.” He spat the last line, but Yin didn’t flinch. 

“Oh? You know what the Mark is? What do you know about it?”

“It belongs to your betters! You wouldn’t even begin to understand its purpose!” Felix stared at his father aghast.

“Father, listen to yourself! Do you know what you sound like?” Maordrid had to refrain from turning to look at Dorian, who she knew to be entering next.

“He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche everyone expects us to be.” 

“Dorian,” Alexius said, eyes narrowing. “I gave you a chance to be part of this and you turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“What could be better than turning back time? And who is this Elder One?” Yin asked, slowly standing on both feet again. Maori knew the time was coming and her hands were sweating, despite the calm void she had forced herself into.

“—You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona said after Alexius’s praise of Corypheus. Dorian smoothly put himself between their group and Alexius.

“This is exactly what you and I talked about  _never_ wanting to happen! Why would you support this?” he asked, sounding truly anguished.

“Stop it, Father. Give up the Venatori and let the southern mages fight the Breach. Let’s go home.” A feverish look came across the older man’s face as he turned to his son.

“No, Felix—he can save you! It’s the only way!”

“Save me?” Felix’s shoulders dropped.

“There is a way. The Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…” Felix shook his head.

“I’m going to die. You need to accept that,” he said, but Alexius was too far gone. He ordered the Venatori to apprehend Yin, but the sound of dying men answered instead. Maordrid looked for sign of Alexius preparing his time spell, but too many people were blocking her view. Yin spread his hands.

“Your men are dead, Alexius!” 

“You…are a mistake! You never should have existed!” the magister roared. Maordrid felt the crackling of the spell and shoved forward just as Dorian shouted, “No!” She reached the green portal just in time to see Yin and Dorian disappearing. His wide eyes found hers—her fingers nearly brushed his—

—and the rift slammed shut.

She stared at the empty air—the carpet where they had just been. The world shrank to a pinprick. She was distantly aware of Solas appearing beside her and Cassandra bellowing a threat to Alexius.  _No. No. No. It’s all over. You have to flee._

The end began as the air just paces away from where they stood hummed and exploded with the return-rift.  _Only moments passed before they returned,_ Varric’s book had said. She was not prepared. 

Dorian and Yin stumbled from the alternate timeline, bloodied and battered with harrowed looks on their faces. Yin’s eyes glazed over them all, but paused on Solas and her before he turned his attention to Alexius.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian said. Alexius went to his knees, defeated.

“I’ll say. Any other tricks up your sleeve?” Yin asked. His knuckles were white around his staff, unlike the Altus who was maintaining perfect composure. Maori felt sweat trickling down her back, desperate to know what they had seen…and was terrified, void of calm utterly forgotten.

“You won. There is no point extending this charade,” Alexius said. “Felix…” He crouched before his father, his face softening. 

“It’s going to be all right, Father,” he said.

“You’ll die…” For a moment, she almost pitied the man. He sounded so broken.

“Everyone dies,” Felix said, and then the guards approached, shackling the magister. Maori remained where she was as Queen Anora’s troops marched in loudly. She caught Yin’s haunted stare burning into her that he immediately turned away as Anora addressed Fiona. The woman was quick to rescind her invitation to the mages, leaving them alone and defenseless until Yin swooped in to save them, with Solas supporting his decision to have them as allies to the Inquisition.

Then, the hall was milling as people moved to leave. Maordrid made for the exit, as that was where everyone was heading and once she emerged from the castle she stood to the side and waited for the others. Solas was first to join her, looking pleased. Then Dorian, Yin, and Cassandra appeared. The latter two kept looking at her and Solas. They had seen something, she could feel it. Yin’s eyes slid away as he walked past her, not saying a word. 

They left the castle in silence, heading to the Gull and Lantern where they would figure out their immediate plans. Dorian and Yin stuck together, speaking only to one another—occasionally to Cassandra—until they reached the inn. Maordrid took her time unsaddling her horse at the stable, then moved onto the other mounts, contemplating everything. The coward in her wanted to run. But coupled with her growing fondness for them, her window to flee without repercussions had already closed. The fighter in her wanted to march up to Yin and tell him everything. And in time, she would. But that day was far off. _Unless Yin already knows..._

She needed to think of a cover.

Maordrid finished rubbing down the horses and left the stable, brushing dirt and hair from her body. As she rounded the corner of the inn, she ran square into the chest of someone.

“Yin.” 

“Maordrid.” They stared at each other in silence before Yin took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yarrrrrgh
> 
> I had like...3 or 4 scenarios for how I imagined this to play out. Decided on this because, - **spoilers** -.  
> I'm thinking of making an 'extra scenes' folder. It will have what you would consider AU (like, what would have happened if Maori had gone into the Red Future with them?) and even alternate endings.
> 
> Oh, also, I might not post again until after Tuesday. I have a lot of school stuff coming up, unfortunately. :/  
> Unless I get lucky, which happens.


	19. In Hushed Whispers (pt. 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maori pov

Yin walked ahead of her, guiding them to the village harbour where he stood at the end of the dock, fingering something held between his hands. She kept her distance from him, facing the open water to quell her nerves.

“We went into the future. A year, to be exact,” he said, voice distant. “It was terrible. The Veil was torn—gone, really, destroyed by that…Elder One. And there was red lyrium everywhere.” She closed her eyes. “Gods, Maori, I’ve never felt fear so strongly before. If Dorian hadn’t been there to snap me out of it, I would have died there.” 

“He knows what he’s doing, he’s proved that much,” she said. He chuckled once.

“If I didn’t believe you before, I believe you now when you said you didn’t know each other. But…” Her heart dropped.

“But what?” her mouth asked on its own. She felt him looking at her, but she didn’t turn her head.

“I have so many questions, but I don’t think you’ll be able to answer.” Her skin went icy cold. 

“What happened, Yin?” she asked. 

“Everyone was infected by that stuff. The red. They were all thrown into cells—except you and Leliana. The Elder One broke you, Maori. You forgot how to speak common and had lapsed into elven, as if that was all you had ever known. Creators, I didn’t know you were fluent! I couldn’t understand half of what you were saying, but you were angry. At Solas. He said you weren’t yourself, but didn’t explain.” He inhaled sharply, as if wounded. “Something must have happened between you two in that future. Something bad. _Ir abelas,_ I don’t know why I brought you out here. Maybe I thought it would answer something if I said it all out loud. Maybe I’m afraid it will happen. I couldn’t bear to see that again. I’d talk to Solas, but I just get the feeling he’ll tell me to look ahead or something.” She finally gathered the bravery to look at him again.

“I am glad you told me,” she said. He shrugged.

“It’s hard to apologise for something that never happened to you, but I feel like I owe it to you all. You suffered, and so did everyone else,” he laughed, bitterly, “For the record, I hope you never turn against us. You or Solas.” Those words chilled her to the marrow, and she wanted to ask but Yin began walking again.  Had things been said that Yin hadn’t caught? Had anything actually happened? She had too many questions and it would be only a matter of time before someone put the pieces together. Dorian and Yin made a formidable team—she could feel the axe hanging above her neck.

The two of them walked back to the Gull and Lantern, largely in silence. Yin only asked her if she still wanted to accompany them to the Storm Coast—to which she reluctantly agreed, but it was worth seeing some of the worry bleed away from his face.

Yin parted with her in favour of a hot bath. He had unloaded his worry onto her and that alone was keeping her eyes open. At least one of them would be getting some sleep. Hopefully.

Maori ordered two tankards filled to the brim with mead and situated herself in the darkest corner of the Gull and Lantern where she could watch the rest of the commons. With an empty stomach, the mead hit hard and fast. At some point, she heard her name but cloaked herself to avoid interaction. She wasn’t quite ready to be drunk out of her mind around them. And she wasn’t drunk enough, which led her to making the foolhardy decision to sneak into the cellar and crack into a good bottle of wine that she sat drinking in the shadows, invisible to all.

And she stayed like that, perched on top of a barrel in the dark corner, surrounded by wines older than all her present company. Except Solas, of course. That thought shouldn't have been as funny as it was, but it was her last thought before slipping into unconsciousness.

  


\--------------------

  


She had to hurry or screw up the entire collusion. The focus hummed with power in the satchel at her waist. To say it wasn’t tempting to take it for herself was an understatement. Resisting its seduction was the hardest thing she’d ever done. And it was because of this struggle that failure loomed behind her like a widening chasm. Both paths led to unfavourable outcomes. Although, succumbing and taking it for herself was possibly more dangerous. 

The priest of Dumat would be following her bread crumbs. He wouldn’t be far behind. 

She was somewhere in the deepest reaches of Arlathan Forest, far from the sleeping place of Fen’harel. There was an abandoned temple somewhere, she just had to remember where. But the damn forest had changed so much that it was hard to find anything familiar through the growth. She wished she had time to walk in the ancient place where her people had once gathered.

Yrja scampered agilely up a massive, twisting tree and onto what had once been a battlement. She couldn’t determine whether it was Imperium or Elvhen masonry with how worn the stone was. Thick vines writhed along the massive blocks, digging into it as if determined to finish the job that the Tevinters had started. 

The elf practically flew up the vines, climbing higher and higher. She recognised the architecture once she pulled herself into the opening of a window. This was her people’s work—the temple Fen’harel had told her to find. It had taken far too long to find the bloody thing and she’d gotten lost far more times than she wanted to admit. 

The halls of the old place had held up through the ages, if barely. The enchantments in the walls had long faded and all that protected the stone was the handiwork of elven masons. 

She wandered the gilded halls, unseeing of wonders lost to the world. The Dalish would kill— _fenedhis_ , they had killed—to get their hands on the little bit of the history still present. It was common knowledge amongst her kind; pathetic, if she thought about it.

The Mirror room echoed her footsteps dully. The rows of Eluvians for which the chamber was named stood shattered, their frames the only testament to what they had once been. With a simple levitation spell, she cleared the fragments of Eluvian where she walked until she reached the centre of the chamber where a worn statue of a dragon sat, its maw turned to the heavens in an eternal snarl. Yrja summoned the Orb to her hand without taking her eyes from the statue, loving the way that it felt hovering above her palm. As she positioned it in the mouth of the dragon, she questioned everything her people had been through. This was their best plan: lead a Blighted ancient priest of Dumat into this ancient sanctum and hope he unlocked the focus, dying in the process.

Fen’harel wouldn’t listen to anyone. Anger, fear, and grief led people to do irrational things. 

She regretted letting go of that orb as soon as she stepped down from the statue. The Veil suddenly rippled and she knew she was no longer alone. Her eyes went back to the focus, heart and mind torn between taking it now—

“There it is,” a deep, resonating voice said from behind her. “And it seems a rattus has been leading us all along. You will make a fine sacrifice to Dumat.” Yrja turned slowly to face him. A roiling shadow occupied the space where she expected to find the ancient magister. It vaguely resembled a humanoid figure, but where the head should have been were several red diamonds that emanated a sickly light. They shifted and blinked in an out of existence—but their gleam seemed focused on her. And the Blighted thing was not alone. She was surrounded by what looked to be Grey Wardens. She sensed a few Templars in their midst as well. 

Yrja took a step back toward the statue, considering her escape options. A mocking laugh rasped from the darkness.

“Or is this lowly creature meaning to take the power from its betters? A thief? Capture her before she can escape again.” Yrja dropped her elven form, bursting into a raven and taking flight. Arrows and spells flew around her as she rolled in the air to avoid them and the Eluvian frames. She shot down a long corridor, trying to remember the layout of the temple while making dives and turns around corners, down stairs, and through collapsed floors. She sensed something behind her and realised she wasn’t the only shapeshifter. Someone had followed her, but was having trouble navigating the bowels of the crumbling temple. Yrja flapped faster, spotting a weak spot in the infrastructure ahead. As soon as she crossed it, she rolled out of her form and spun, yanking the ceiling down with a web of magic. The entire area was flooded with dust and debris, forcing her to cover her mouth and eyes. When it began to clear some, she turned back just in time to see a figure flying at her. The mage delivered a kick to her sternum, sending her tumbling backward off a broken balcony and into a puddle below, knocking the breath from her lungs. She narrowly summoned half a barrier to deflect a spear of ice, firing back with a bolt of lightning that exploded the wall next to her enemy. They dropped down in front of her, fully shielded and proceeded to exchange blow for blow with her. What had once been an enclosed courtyard became littered with blasted stone and gained a new open skylight during the fight. She quickly recognised that her opponent was trying to wear her mana down by tempting her with perfect shots, so she adjusted her tactics by throwing up a cloud of dust for cover, summoning her spear, and charging him before he could recover. 

His fear permeated the thick air as he tried avoiding her weapon with reinforced shields—but she was gaining, throwing rocks beneath his feet and Fade stepping far and then close to throw off his balance. The final blow was dealt when she integrated his own tactic, opening herself up to a potentially fatal strike. He dove for it desperately, casting a frostbolt at her neck; she erected a barrier of her own at the last possible second. In that fraction of a heartbeat, she threw him off balance with a stone to his shoulder, then froze both his legs to the ground while Fade stepping behind him, using his backward momentum to propel her spear through his back and into his heart. The Grey Warden choked, laughed, and died when she wrenched the spear from his body.

Battered and filthy, Yrja took a few stumbling steps back trying to orient herself. His last cast had bruised her chest instead of impaling, due to her urgent and incomplete barrier. The courtyard grew dark as if a cloud had passed over while she was inspecting herself for wounds—and then suddenly she was gripped by something around her ankles, wrists, and neck. The source of the darkness flooded in from the openings of the courtyard as tendrils of smoke, accumulating before her in a pillar.

“Such insolence you display,” he said, voice vibrating through her skull. “Yet I do not smell fear, unlike the Warden you killed. You’ve proved your usefulness and so I shall keep you. Like a hound, you will bring me to Fen’harel and after he is sent to the Void you will take me to the others like him.” The smoke drifted closer to her face, the red diamonds filling her vision. “Then, when I have come into my power I shall watch you destroy yourself.” A single finger of blackness swirled up between her and the eyes. “I will make you mine now.” The tendril split and suddenly her mouth, nose, and eyes were assaulted as it sought her very spirit. Yrja fought back, shoving and burning with her aura. The voice laughed in her head, gloating and taunting as it gained. But it, like the Warden, was trying to wear her down. She had already defeated one of them.

With an internal intake of breath, she let go, feeling the entity’s surprise within her mind. With that minute pause, she purged herself of magic in a blast that disturbed even the seemingly depthless smoke, blowing it back. The invisible bindings evaporated and she was running, lungs and eyes burning. She heard Wardens and Templars around the courtyard readying spells to entrap her, but the attacks never came.

“You will not be free of me, little knife,” the voice called after her. “Not until I am done with you!” Yrja howled in pain as what felt like a whip seared across her back and wrapped around her neck. She collapsed to the ground screaming and panting, tearing at the hot wires and finding only her skin. “I will hound you across the Fade until your mind is mine. But now, your spirit fades from this realm and you will return to your people. I will be waiting. Be gone.”

\------------------------

She woke, coughing so violently she wasn’t certain her ribs were still intact with her spine. A cloud of smoke surrounded her, but it wasn’t black. Her clothes were streaming as though she’d just rolled in a campfire. As soon as she moved her arms, she felt the agony of the creature’s grip across her back, made worse by her binding armour. Her neck was sticky and from the smell of burned flesh and copper she knew it was blood.

Breathing quick and shallow, Maordrid blinked rapidly and got to her feet from the ground where she had fallen, grabbing the half empty bottle and downing it. She ascended the stairs to an empty commons, grimacing with every laboured step. Ascended another set to a hall set with doors. Fourth door on the right. She knocked, slumping against the frame on her forearm. Movement from within. The door crept open, then swung wide.

“Maordrid!”

“I need your help,” she said, looking at the flagstones by his feet. Solas ushered her in, sitting her on his bed before looking her over.

“Your neck,” he murmured. “What happened?”

“He—it was waiting for me. Tricked me again,” she said, hissing as he pressed a wet cloth to the wound around her neck. 

“You reek of alcohol,” he said, measuring a strip of white cloth. Her hand snapped out around his wrist as he put it against her neck. A noise died in her throat.

“Sorry. Go ahead.” She released him. He dabbed healing potion on the bandages and gingerly wrapped it around her neck again before sending a delicate spell of healing into her muscles. It mended the flesh near her vocal chords first, eliciting a relieved sigh. 

“You are lucky an artery wasn’t cut--there's more blood! Where else are you injured?” he said, voice alarmed. “How did you escape with your life?” 

“It let me go,” she said, allowing him to help her unbuckle her armour and pull up her shirt. He hissed through his teeth as he got his first full look at her back. It was a mosaic of scars, she knew. Solas set to work quickly, downing a lyrium potion after he had cleaned the wound. When the healing spell began, she could feel the depth of the lash. It had gone past muscle and sinew, possibly narrowly missing her spine.

“It is a wonder you walked up here with such damage,” he muttered.

“I downed half a bottle so that I could,” she said. 

“There, it is done, but…” Solas fell silent, struggling with words.

“Is it that bad?” She pulled her shirt back on slowly and faced him. His eyes moved slowly to hers, a frown in his forehead and on his lips.

“You are going to get yourself killed,” he said. “I can’t heal that.” 

“And I do not even know what I am facing. If it is a spirit, it is stronger than anything I have ever seen. What if it’s another Dreamer?” she asked. “Whatever it is, I cannot ask you to step in harm’s way.” 

“What’s to say it will not come after someone else in the Inquisition?” She flinched, remembering its words. It planned on coming after him next. His face did something, as if enlightened suddenly. He leaned back, searching her face. “Once it gets what it wants from you, that is exactly what it is going to do, isn’t it?”

“It’s not going to get that far. I will put a stop to it,” she said fiercely. Solas didn’t back down.

“How are you going to stop it when you yourself have admitted it’s tricked you every time? You have already admitted that you have gotten no closer to discovering what exactly you are dealing with,” he said. “Clearly you aren’t going to accept help, so that leaves me no choice but to investigate alone. Denial does not suit you, Maori.” Her fingernails dug into her palms.

“Fine.” 

“Fine, what?” he said. 

“We need a plan of action. It has been unpredictable in its ways and I have no way of telling whether it will prey on us both once we are there. It could pose as me or you and try to kill us that way!” Solas folded his hands in his lap, thinking.

“At the first sign of danger, I’ll move us to a different part of the Fade. Or wake us up immediately,” he said. 

“Are you sure we cannot wait until after we close the Breach? What if that is lending to its power?” Solas made a thoughtful noise.

“It is certainly possible, but could you wait that long? It will take us at least two weeks to get back to Haven with the Storm Coast detour,” he said. She wasn’t sure, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Somehow, I was able to meditate yesterday without being drawn into the Fade like the first time I tried,” she said. “Or maybe I could take a modified magebane potion. It’ll sap my ability to cast and temporarily sever me from the Fade.” The blood drained from Solas’s face.

“You’d be useless in a fight. You’ll feel terrible,” he said. She nodded sadly.

“But is that not the best course of action? I can handle a regular sword until then,” she said. “If you want to help me then make sure I can’t go into the Fade.” She could feel the disapproval rolling off of him. If she was honest with herself, she wasn’t too sure about this idea either. Going without magic for two weeks, followed by the events of Haven was…risky.

“If I agree to postpone yet again…”

“Name your price.” The Wolf’s mouth curled.

“You’ll give me full rein of the situation.” She matched his expression, but within, her insides were melting into acid.

“Agreed.” He offered his hand and they shook. Then he assessed the light through the small window of his room. 

“It is still a ways off until morning. I’ll find the magebane if you want to get a bath drawn,” he said, offering his hand to help her stand. She went to pull her armour back over her chest but he stopped her. "At least allow your wounds to heal, warrior." She grumbled, but let it hang. 

“You’re too kind, Solas,” she said as she crossed the threshold. “The Inquisition is lucky to have you. And I am glad to know you.” As he closed his door, he turned to smile at her. His cheeks looked as though someone had taken delicate paintbrushes across them with red.

“Perhaps one day when neither of our lives are in immediate danger, we will have time to enjoy each other’s company.” Her lips formed a tentative smile.

“One day, I hope.”


	20. In Hushed Whispers (pt. 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yin's pov

Yin and Dorian plummeted into a flooded undercroft, rife with red lyrium. The portal snapped shut before either of them could make a jump for it, leaving them alone with two shell-shocked guards that promptly attacked. After dispatching them in a storm of fire and Stone Fists, the two took a moment to gather their bearings.

“Displacement? Interesting,” Dorian said as Yin looted the guards. “It’s probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us…to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?” 

“I don’t think we’ve even left the castle,” Yin grunted, removing a key that looked to match the cell in which they’d landed. Dorian snapped his fingers.

“If we’re still here…it isn’t—oh! Of course! It’s not simply where—it’s when!” Yin slow clapped, but the other mage ignored him, speedily talking on, “Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!” Yin didn’t think it was funny anymore.

“Huh. Time magic. Still not sure that’s even real,” he said, making the key dance across his knuckles before inserting it into the door.

“I’d agree with you under almost any other circumstance, but obviously Alexius has taken his research to exciting new heights,” he said as they pulled the grated door open against the water. “We’ve seen his temporal rifts before. This time we simply…passed through one. I say we look around, see where the rift took us. Then we can figure out how to get back…if we can.” They walked from the cell, looking around at the decimation.

“What do you think he was trying to do?” Yin asked as he searched for a way out.

“Probably trying to remove you from time completely. Pleasant thought,” Dorian remarked behind him. “And if that happened, you would never have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes or mangled his Elder One’s plan. Your surprise in the hall made him reckless, so he tossed us into the rift before he was ready. I countered it, the magic went wild…and here we are. Make sense?”

“I send him a fruit basket, he sends me back in time to ensure he never gets it. I’ve never met someone so violently against them.” He was glad Dorian snickered, because Gods, he needed a little bit of reinforcement.

“I don’t even want to think about what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn’t ‘travel’ through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it in the privy. But don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll protect you.” Yin flashed him a smile, his words hitting him somewhere he didn’t expect. He found himself standing a little straighter. But then slumped again when a thought occurred to him.

“What about the others? Do you think they’re here somewhere, drawn through like us?” They mounted some stairs and began drying their clothes with fire spells as they talked.

“The rift didn’t seem large enough to bring the whole room through. Alexius wouldn’t risk catching himself or Felix in it. They’re probably still when, and where, we left them. In some sense, anyway.” Yin finished up before Dorian did and looked at him.

“Well, I hope that pretty head of yours has a plan,” he said. 

“I have some thoughts on that. They’re lovely thoughts, like little jewels!” 

“Adorable.” 

They proceeded up the stairs quietly, listening for more enemies or signs of the others. There was a lot of red lyrium that Yin had to pull Dorian away from when he went to inspect it, shaking his head. They nearly got lost, walking through so many rooms. Yin collected a few little treasures, but then gave up when he realised he was going to run out of pockets. Dorian took the lead once and immediately led them into some kind of massive chamber with grated floors, more red lyrium, and the next group of guards. Fortunately, they were non-mages and Yin tossed one over the side of the platform with a well-aimed stone fist. Dorian zapped the other, frying him in his armour. Yin blasted him over the edge while he was still seizing.

“Left or right?” Dorian asked, indicating the doors on either side. 

“Always left,” Yin said. The other man laughed.

“Why?”

“Because I’m left handed.” Yin opened the door and followed him through. They proceeded down a staircase, which seemed opposite of where they wanted to go, since this seemed to be the lower levels of the castle. That was until Yin heard breathing that wasn’t his or Dorian’s. They tentatively ventured in with magic glowing around their hands until they came upon a cell that seemed entirely filled with red lyrium.

Except, the Grand Enchanter was in there, trapped between two huge spears of it.

“You’re…alive? How?” she asked. Her voice was…unnerving. “I saw you…disappear…into the rift.” Yin stepped closer, looking for a way to free her but it seemed…she was part of the lyrium. 

“I don’t understand. What’s happened to you?” he asked.

“Red lyrium,” Fiona wheezed, “it’s a disease. The longer you’re near it…eventually…you become this. Then they mine your corpse for more.” Dorian stepped up beside him.

“Can you tell us the date? It’s very important.” Fiona gritted her teeth, clearly struggling. Yin hated every second he was near this stuff. It radiated a sickly heat that made him sweat as if in fever.

“Harvestmere…9:42 Dragon.” 

“Nine forty-two? Then we’ve missed an entire year!” Dorian said. If Yin’s heart dropped any further it was going to fall out of his pants.

“We have to get out of here, go back in time,” he said, turning to Dorian.

“Please, stop this from happening,” Fiona begged. “Alexius…serves the Elder One. More powerful…than the Maker. No one challenges him…and lives.” 

“I promise I will do everything in my power to set things right,” Yin said. _More powerful than the Maker? I don’t believe it._

“Our only hope is to find the amulet that Alexius used to send us here. If it still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left. Maybe,” Dorian said.

“Good,” Fiona wheezed. 

“I said _maybe_.  It might also turn us into paste.” 

“You must try,” she said, turning her head to rest it back on the stone wall of her cell. “Your spymaster, Leliana…she is here. Find her.” Yin began backing away from the cell, but Fiona’s voice followed, “Quickly, before the Elder One…learns you’re here.”

“Lovely little jewels. Glittering in the light,” Yin said once Dorian rejoined him. They proceeded back the way they’d come, checking what rooms and cells that they could and finding no one else on that side of the castle. Then they moved back across the platform to the right wing. 

A haunted voice rang out in the trickling darkness, reciting words meant to bring light. Yin closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself once they found the door. On the other side they found Cassandra, thankfully free of any massive crystals, but emanating telltale signs of infection. The Seeker didn’t even stand when she saw them.

“You’ve returned…can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance? Maker forgive me, I failed! I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life.” Yin wanted to grab her hands, she looked so broken. His own were shaking as he opened her cell. Dorian patted his shoulder discretely when he stepped away.

“I was never dead. I’m not dead now, Cass. We just got—damn, this is actually a bit hard to explain,” he said. She didn’t laugh or even smirk at him as she used to. That hurt a lot more than it should have.

“I was there! The Magister obliterated you with a gesture!” she insisted, getting slowly to her feet. 

“Alexius sent us forward in time. If we can find him, we may be able to return to the present,” Dorian said.

“Go back in time?” Finally, some spirit returned to her eyes. “Then you can make it so none of this ever took place!” _Not this again. So much hinges on our success_.

“If Dorian is right and reverses the spell, then yes—”

“None of this will happen. Andraste, please let that be true.” 

“Do you know where the others are at?” Yin asked, handing her a sword they’d found. 

“Solas is here. Maordrid and Leliana are being kept somewhere else, but I don’t believe they’re far,” Cass said. 

“They’re alive then? Thank Mythal,” Yin breathed. 

“Alive, but suffering,” she said as she led the way. When they entered Solas’s hold, he was facing the opposite wall, muttering under his breath. His ears twitched at the sound of their armour and he turned, tensed as if ready to fight. Then a look of awe crossed his face, his body jerking back. He looked just as bad as Cassandra.

“You’re alive! We saw you die!” 

“My friend…” Yin fumbled with the lock, cursing his stupid hands before just melting it open with fire. 

“The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time. We just got here, so to speak,” Dorian said, watching Yin with concern.

“Can you reverse the process? You could return and obviate events of the last year, it may not be too late!” 

“You look bad, _falon_.  Is there anything I can do to help?” Yin asked, reaching forward, but Solas stepped out of reach.

“I am dying, but no matter. If you can undo this, they could all be saved, but you know nothing of this world. It is far worse than you understand.” Solas rubbed his throat as if it pained him. “Alexius served a master and now he reigns, unchallenged. His minions assassinated Empress Celene and used the chaos to invade the south. This Elder One commands an army of demons. After you stop Alexius, you must be prepared.” Dorian and Yin exchanged dumbfounded looks.

“We can’t do this without you, Solas,” Yin said. 

“If there is any hope, any way to save them, my life is yours. This world is an abomination, it must never come to pass.” Yin busied himself with finding Solas a staff to use so he could not focus on the gravity of the other elf’s words. There was a roughly hewn one lying behind a barrel in the corner of the room. It’d give him splinters, but it was better than nothing. As they filtered out of the chamber to find Leliana and Maori, Solas whispered his name, reaching out to grab his arm before thinking better of it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, motioning for the others to go ahead. 

“If we find her…her mind has been twisted. She isn’t herself,” Solas said, seeming genuinely shaken.

“Who?”

“Y—Maordrid. You should harden yourself for what you might see,” he said, then moved to pass him, leaving Yin bewildered and worried. Had they turned her into something? A red lyrium abomination like Fiona? Something worse?

They heard the drawbridge dropping as they ascended the stairs and back toward the platform chamber. Four men advanced, this time with a spellcaster in tow. Cassandra easily taunted them into attacking her while Dorian and Solas focused the caster. Yin helped Cass by freezing the warriors and archers in place, making it easier to run them through. When they were dead, they proceeded through the newly opened way. 

“I think Maordrid is being kept in the room just above,” Cassandra said. 

“She was in a cell beside mine, but they moved her,” Solas said. 

“Why?” Dorian asked. 

“You will see, soon enough.” Dorian dropped back to walk with Yin looking troubled.

“Why do I get the feeling what happened to her is worse than them?” Dorian whispered.

“Because they aren’t giving a straight answer,” Yin replied, glaring ahead. 

“I don’t think I want to know.”

“Yeah. Me neither. But I can’t leave her behind.” They walked together, lightly searching the vacant dining room for notes, but finding nothing. There were screams up ahead that sounded too familiar. Hurrying, they approached an iron-strapped door and agreed that Cassandra would go first with a barrier from Solas. Then they would attack.

Cassandra smashed the door down, revealing some sort of deranged torture chamber. It was utterly black, save for the light of one medium-sized head of lyrium protruding from the wall. A man stood before the prisoner at the other end, turning at the intrusion and falling quickly beneath their casting as he was the only guard present. 

When he fell, Maordrid remained, standing shackled against the wall. Yin was surprised to see her visibly clean of corruption, but when she looked up he could see the blood vessels around her eyes were blackened. They had made long, deep cuts into the flesh of her arms, legs, and torso that had gone past the subcutaneous layer. The scars were…horrific. Clearly they had made her heal without magic. She stared at them with soulless eyes, her long black hair hanging in greasy curtains about her gaunt face. She looked as though she had been dead for a year.

“Maori?” Yin asked, stepping forward. Dorian rushed forward with a key found on the torturer’s corpse, but Solas stepped between them.

“I would not advise that,” the elf said ominously, holding out his arm. The shackled mage behind him chuckled darkly and said something in elven that Yin’s brain was sluggish to catch. _Hello, shadow of the past._ Or at least that’s what he thought she said.

“ _You freed him but not me?_ ” she asked slower, but still in elven. 

“You are not yourself,” Solas told her. 

“Step out of the way, Solas,” Dorian said. Solas didn’t move, glancing back at her. Suddenly, the wraith that was Maordrid let out a howl, vocal chords straining. She curled in on herself as much as her shackles would allow. Dorian shoved past Solas and inserted the key, removing the heavy manacles. Yin saw Solas take a few steps back. She spoke rapidly again, too fast this time for Yin to translate. An aura of magic surrounded Solas’s fists as he replied.

_“Na shivasem. Var rosem’suledin! Ar dhrua, yrja. I’tel ma, var laimasha. Mala, ir nulam ma.”_ Maordrid, again, laughed bitterly, rubbing her wrists once Dorian freed her. She stood on her own, looking stronger than she appeared. 

“ _Nulam mar’lin,_ ” she said, spitting, then spoke another string of angry elven. 

“All of you should leave this room. This is between us,” Solas said, suddenly switching tongues. Dorian again stepped between them, face a grimace. 

“Why? So you can kill each other?” Dorian hissed. Solas didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to as Maordrid attacked him with a blast of black magic, narrowly missing Dorian.

“She is gone! Get out!” Solas shouted at them, and the others dropped back as he threw up a wall of ice. Yin grabbed Dorian who had fallen and they ran together for the door. Yin turned back as soon as Cassandra was out. Solas dropped the wall and let loose a barrage of ice and fire, then surrounded himself in glyphs while Maordrid vaulted over with a glowing red spear, activating an exploding fire rune on her way over. They clashed in the middle, spear against staff. A vortex of ice and corrupted storm magic whipped around the two of them. Solas, being bigger than her, managed to push her into an ice glyph that froze one of her feet. 

“ _Ga’lin dinem, Solas! Ar’an dinemah—Em i ma_ ,” she howled, yanking on his arm, which pulled him into her. She rolled into the glyph, forcing Solas to dispel it or be caught with her.

“Yin,” Dorian said. “They’re going to kill each other! We should do something!” Yin looked back at them. In the split second that he had looked away, they had wounded one another. Blood streamed from Maordrid’s thigh and Solas had a cut on his head. The room was wrecked, parts of it frozen, on fire, or warping. Yin cast his Aegis, planning on grabbing one of them and wresting them away from each other. Dorian swore and jumped beneath the Aegis with him and together they moved cautiously back through the chaos. Ahead, Solas desperately parried the corrupted straightsword Maori was now brandishing and winning with. 

“Stop!” Yin shouted, but Maordrid brought her sword down in an arc, snapping Solas’ staff in two. With a wild laugh, she drew her arm back and thrust it home—at the same time that Solas drove the broken end of his staff through her body. The wild magic stuttered, then stopped. Yin dropped his shield out of disbelief, running over to them as they collapsed. Solas gripped the sword in his chest, labouring for breath, looking up through glazed eyes when Yin landed beside him. 

“We need you, you can’t die,” Yin pleaded, reaching out to his friend.

“I failed…this world. It—she was…right,” Solas gasped, looking over at Maordrid who Dorian was tending to. “What hope—” _gasp_ “—remains lies with you, Herald.”

“Why? Why did you have to kill each other? You were friends!” Yin cried, frustrated tears falling. Solas steadied himself on one hand, slumping forward, wheezing wetly.

“ _Ar’an himem_ ,” Solas said, his voice becoming faint. “Neither could. We can't.” 

“I’m losing him, Dorian!” Yin shouted, pouring healing magic into Solas before pulling the blade out. “Solas, don’t you dare.”

“We could have…” Solas stilled, as did Yin. He shook his friend, but his eyes had closed.

“Yin,” Dorian called. Yin scrambled over to the other two, only to see Maordrid in quickly diminishing shape. “I can’t understand her. She won’t speak common.” Yin gripped one of her hands. She squeezed his. He froze—her eyes had cleared of the shadow and looking back at him was an elf in pain.

“ _Shivana ish. Dirth’asha, sathan. Tel’laimasha.”_ Then, she stilled. Yin cursed, rising to his feet and kicking at debris.

“ _Fuuuuck!”_

“What did she say?” Dorian asked.

“Duty to him? Please tell? I don’t know, I can’t think,” Yin snapped, blood roaring in his ears. 

“Yin, Herald, I know it is difficult but we need to move,” Cassandra said softly from behind them. Yin couldn’t break his gaze from the bodies on the floor. It was Dorian that guided him from the room by the shoulder. No burial, no honour. His world was spinning. How would they return without their help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna leave out the translations for what Solas and Maori said to each other. Go ahead and piece it together if you like, but where's the fun in that?


	21. Shadow of doubt

  


It wasn’t easy. Even with Leliana, the fight onward was filled with impossible horrors. The Veil was gone and chaos had enveloped the entire world. Demons roamed freely and red lyrium was as plentiful as trees had once been.

When they struck down Alexius, it was Dorian’s turn to grieve, but Yin tried to console him as the mage had done for him. 

Then the Elder One came. Leliana had been cold and detached at the news of Solas’ and Maori’s demise, but the woman despite all she had suffered, held the doors with Cassandra like a warrior out of legend.

And then, against all odds, Dorian brought them back. Yin was still reeling, repressing a cry when he saw everyone standing, whole and hale before him in the hall. Cass in disbelief and relief, and his two elven companions in similar states. He turned his ire on Alexius, to which it promptly turned to ash. He pitied the man—he loved his son so much that he’d throw the world away for him. Yin felt nothing else for him, however. Like staring upon a rock, inert and grey. He wanted to be there for his sentencing, he decided.

Fortunately, one thing he had a choice in was the fate of the mages. Anora—who was…less than pleasant and understanding than they deserved—came in after the hard work was done and declared the mages unwelcome to her country. With a smile showing teeth, Yin offered to take the mages in. Fiona was reasonably paranoid of more potential abuse, but after offering them an alliance, she caved. They would meet in Haven and finally close the Breach. Yin almost considered just putting off the Storm Coast, but he needed time to clear his head of Redcliffe before taking the plunge. 

As they departed from the hall, he felt a presence join him and looked to his left to see Dorian.

“Don’t mind me, you’re walking quite slow. You might get in someone’s way,” the Altus said. Yin moved to the side, but Dorian followed. “Are you okay?” 

“I have to be,” the Herald replied. “Where else will they get someone with a magical mark in their hand? I can’t just…”

“Give in to your sorrows? Elope with a stranger and flee across the countryside to escape the haunting past?” 

“Your ideas of dealing with stress are so detailed. Do you premeditate these things?” Yin said with little enthusiasm. 

“It’s all part of the fine breeding, I can assure you.” Dorian matched his pace, showing no signs of leaving. “I understand what we saw, but I’m not going to pretend I understand what was going on with your friends. It…didn’t leave a good taste in my mouth, I’ll admit.” Yin sighed.

“Yeah, me neither,” he said.

“You know, I did commit to memory some of the things they said. I was thinking, what if they said something important that could help us in this timeline? You know, besides the whole assassination, demon army, and all that.” Yin stopped walking and faced him. 

“You remember the elvish they were speaking,” he said dubiously. Dorian nodded, eyes lighting up.

“ _Shivana ish. Dir…asha, sathin? Tel’lai masha_ . That was the last thing  _she_ said to us,” Dorian said, looking pleased with himself. Yin shook his head.

“Barely,” he said, laughing. “Don’t let Solas hear that butchery you call elvish.” He continued to walk, leaving Dorian who jogged to keep up. “ _Shiv…ish…_ his duty? Or duty of—to him? What, to me? It seems incomplete.” With time he could figure it out, but his mind was still bogged with images and stress.

“What did I get wrong? I thought I did quite well! What about… _Aron dinema?_ Or how about _ir nulam ma_? ” Yin again slowed his pace, but only because the translation for the last few words registered in his mind.

“I regret you,” he said automatically. “Who said that?”

“Solas did,” Dorian replied. “ _Kaffas_ , he said  that to her? Never go to him for relationship advice, I suppose.” 

“Is that all you remember? We’re running out of hallway. They’re all waiting outside,” Yin said. Dorian tapped his chin.

“Off the top of my head, that’s it. I’m sure I’ll remember more in the middle of the night,” he said. “Perhaps it won’t make sense, Yin. They had a whole year of history—context we will never know.” Yin slumped and went to join the others. He tried to look at Maordrid, then Solas, but couldn’t.  _Cold words, Solas._

Dorian decided to go with them back to the village and paid for a room at the inn for the night. It seemed he was undecided about joining the Inquisition, but after Yin made not-so-subtle suggestions that he wanted him to, Dorian retired to his rooms in a saunter with a secret smile on his face.

After, Yin found himself standing outside Solas’ room, but found he didn’t really know what to say to him. His feet took him outside where he knew he would find the other odd elf. Odd, but somehow easy to talk to. He’d barely walked around the corner when she ran into him. The moonlight illuminated her eyes when she looked at him. He had see many a maiden and lad in moonlight, and in books it was always that some secret inner beauty was revealed by light of the magical silver sky-egg. That wasn’t the case with Maordrid. Silver scars that he hadn’t noticed in daylight became apparent—she’d one or two across her nose, one through her right eyebrow, and just beneath the apple of her cheek was a sliver of silver that spanned from temple to her mid-nose. By the shadows cast across the ridges of her face, he realised her nose must have been broken at some point too.

“Yin,” she breathed, snapping him from his revelry.

“Maordrid,” he said, then paused, suddenly nervous. “We need to talk.” She nodded graciously and together they walked toward the harbour where he knew they’d be alone. It was far enough from the inn that he was able to gather his thoughts, but long enough that he had time to over-think some of them.

He started by describing to her the dark future. Red lyrium, the sickness, the damaged Veil. That she lost her mind. When he was about to tell her what had transpired between her and Solas, he faltered.  _Something real bad._ What an understatement.

“Oh yeah, and then you and Solas killed each other,” he muttered long after they returned to the Gull and Lantern. He had replayed that scene in his head at least twenty times since it had happened. He rewatched Cassandra’s body being torn to shreds, closely followed by Leliana.  _Yeah, you’re not sleeping tonight._ He’d half a mind to seek out Dorian again, to drink wine and forget like Maori had once said, but he knew the Tevinter likely needed some time alone. Even when he found the courage to seek Maordrid out again, she was not in her room. So, he went outside again wrapped in his cloak and sat with the horses. The smell of the stables reminded him of his Dalish family. Dozing with the halla had been a past-time of his in his younger days. His siblings, the twins Raj and Dhrui, would never let him rest in peace. But once they had all passed through adolescence and into their second decade, the unruly duo had finally come to understand why he had always tried to sneak naps throughout the day. The Dalish way of life was exhausting.

He missed Dhrui the most. She should have been his twin, not Raj’s. And right then, in the stable she would have sat with him against Solas’ white mare, Rosal, in silence. She would have brought food, too. Maybe told a joke, since he got his sense of humour from her. A few tears rolled down his cheeks at her memory. If he hadn’t gone to the Conclave, she would have and she would be in his position now—or dead. Would she have done a better job than he was? She had always seemed to know the answers to everything. He would send a letter to her before they left Redcliffe. Maybe in two weeks when they returned to Haven there would be a letter waiting for him. It was a comforting thought. 

Yin stayed there for hours, listening to the horses and the night birds until the first signs of life began to return to the world. He rose and shook the stiffness from his joints and muscles when he saw Solas emerge from the inn, which was uncharacteristic for the Dreamer. He nearly sprained something trying to catch up and then startled the other elf from his beeline to…wherever it was he was headed.

“You smell like a stable,” Solas said. Yin leaned over and sniffed Solas’ shoulder.

“And you smell like smoke for some reason,” he said, puzzled. “Blood and smoke. I know a few Dalish warrior girls that’d love to get you alone in an aravel. A few men as well.” When he didn’t get a rise out of him, Yin pursed his lips. “Seriously, what are you doing out here so early?” They stopped outside of a hut with a sign that read  _apothecary._ He wouldn’t get up to restock on potions or herbs—they generally did that when they reached an Inquisition camp.

“Maori had another dream. I’m getting her magebane, per her request,” Solas replied, then knocked on the door. Yin digested the words for a moment, then waited as Solas conducted his business with a rather chipper old woman. She had three bottles in stock—Solas bought them all. He also purchased powdered dragonthorn. 

“Magebane, huh?” Yin said as they left the hut. Solas handed two of the bottles to him and proceeded to mix some of the powder in with the potion in his hand. He repeated the same with the others, then took the others from Yin.

“We decided it’s for the best. At least until the Breach is sealed,” Solas said as they walked the opposite direction of the inn. Yin laughed. “I fail to see what’s funny about this.”

“She’s headstrong. You know she’s just going to keep finding excuses for you not to help her?” 

“I think she has seen reason,” Solas replied. “Even if she rescinds her agreement, I told her I’ll be intervening regardless of her wishes.”  _I regret you._ Yin shook his head wildly. 

“Solas,” he started. The Fade walker looked at him, sensing the unease in his voice. “Remember when I said I wanted you to keep an eye on her?” He nodded suspiciously. “You don’t have to anymore. She’s innocent.” Solas bowed, then kept walking. Clearly, the man was on a mission.  _He cares for her. They’re nowhere near the point they had reached in the other place._

And he prayed that it would stay that way.

  


————————

  


An elf with long, black braided hair sat on a bench overlooking Lake Calenhad, worn forest-green cloak held shut against the brisk air that rushed across the waters. Beside the elf was an empty glass bottle sitting on its side with less than a fingernail’s worth of a strange red substance pooling within it. Another elf climbed up the silent promontory and offered his hand to the other. Together, one supported the other as they joined a larger group waiting with horses. 

As one, they moved north, on a long and reluctant journey to a storming coast.


	22. Tide & Tranquillity

A week later, they were all ready for the journey to be over. The weather going north had worsened with each league covered and the phrase  _‘I hope these Chargers are worth it_ ’ was as constant as the grumbling. Yin wanted to run down the hill and into the ocean away from all the world when they finally reached the Storm Coast. 

Despite Dorian constantly bemoaning his soggy state of dress, Yin couldn’t imagine how difficult the road would have been without him. The Tevinter was a smart-ass over three-quarters of the time, but the other fraction he proved to be an attentive listener. However, he didn’t offer any of that to the others. Well, maybe except for Maori, but with Solas it was a constant pissing contest. The Imperium did this, the Imperium did that, they came up with this magic or invented that method—Yin wanted to bash his own head in with a rock, but he was pretty sure  that was something the Magisters had come up with as well. Solas wasn’t much better, arguing for the ancient Elves and whatever else. Occasionally, Maori chimed in but for the most part she was withdrawn in her magebane-induced misery.

Fortunately, when they spotted a skirmish at the bottom of an escarpment, all debates came to a halt and Yin all but propelled himself down the incline, eager to let out some of his pent-up frustrations. A massive Qunari nearly took his head off as he whirlwinded a double-headed axe through a clump of enemies. Arrows and magic flew through the air in a dizzying flurry. In one instance, Yin spun to see a mercenary raising a sword to cut him in two, but then choked and collapsed to reveal a haggard looking Maordrid bearing a simple iron sword. She nodded and dashed off into the fray. 

The battle ended soon after they had arrived and the Qunari addressed his Chargers in a jolly voice. Yin had seen a handful of Qunari present in Antiva, but none so large as The Iron Bull. He wasn’t sure what to make of the grey-skinned giant other than his forwardness about being a spy. Even when Yin threatened Leliana against him, the Qunari was understanding. They accepted him into the Inquisition and then promptly turned on their heels and hiked back to the nearest camp once Dorian struck up his complaining again. The Chargers tailed along, happily making conversation with the rest of the group. Iron Bull joined Yin at the front asking him what all the Inquisition had planned for the Breach. Since they were part of the organisation now, he told him about the mages and the idiocy of Tevinter, taking care to mention the Elder One in hopes that perhaps the well-travelled mercenary might know something. Nope, he was just as scared of magic as Sera.

At camp, two large fires were made—one for warmth and the other for cooking. Yin sulkily joined Dorian at the one absent of Chargers. 

“Brutish…smelly… _loud_ ,” Dorian muttered under his breath. The other man had his hands tucked under his armpits, normally-impeccable hair now sticking up in random directions from the rain. He was glaring over at the new group who had gathered around the cooking fire where Lace Harding was making a large vat of stew.

“Careful, he doesn’t seem fond of Tevinter,” Yin whispered, grinning slightly. Dorian glanced at him, then narrowed his eyes again at the laughing mercenaries.

“Ben-Hassrath. A spy. An actual  _Qunari_ spy,” Dorian said, “That…didn’t strike you, you know, as a bad thing? At all? Even just a little?” Yin shrugged.

“I mean, did you see the way he was swinging that axe?” Yin asked.

“Yes! And any moment he could decide to do so at  _us_ ,” Dorian exclaimed, then lowered his voice. “He’d go for you first—the Herald of the faithful. I’d hate to see such a fine specimen in bloodied little pieces about the ground.” Yin raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at a corner of his lips.

“I’m a fine specimen?” he said. Dorian’s eyes cut back and forth at him twice before he huffed and stared into the fire.

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Yin laughed, casting his head back.

“Oh, like someone I know,” he said. There was a smirk on the Altus’s face. For a short time after, they sat as close to the fire as they dared, alone. When Harding shouted for dinner, Yin brushed Dorian’s knee getting up. He sensed eyes on him, but wandered off shamelessly. When he joined the larger group someone handed him a bowl that he retreated with back to the other fire where people were beginning to settle. He saw Maori tucked up against a stack of firewood quite clearly trying to stay out of sight. She’d her hood pulled up against the cold but he could see the dark rings under her eyes from there. He crouched before her for a moment and offered her an apple that she took slowly.

“How are you doing, love?” he asked, digging around the stew with his spoon. The other elf carved the apple in half with a knife from her boot.

“Just…keeping an eye out for spies,” she said, flashing a half-smile. Yin left his spoon in the bowl.

“Is everyone upset about that?” he asked. She let out a low chuckle as she bit into an apple slice.

“Heard Dorian express concern over seeing you turned into  _hors d’oeuvres_ for a dragon , ” she mused. Yin reddened. “I quite agree with him. Do what you think is best—I will protect you so long as you’ll have me.” He blinked owlishly as his stomach did peculiar little flips.

“You  _did_ save me earlier,” he finally said as she took another bite.

“Three times, actually,” she said nonchalantly. 

“What? When? There weren’t that many of them!” She swallowed, then looked at him.

“Archers. They weren’t part of the group the Qunari was fighting,” she said. “They came from the west if you’re facing the sea. I’ll wager they’re the reason Harding’s scouts have disappeared.” Yin squeezed her shoulder.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re a terror when you need to be. A lovely little elf that could simultaneously cook your brain in its bowl and slice your tendons.  _Ma serannas._ ” She took another bite of apple and he took that as his cue to leave her alone. When he went to sit where he’d been earlier, he found the entire spot occupied by Iron Bull’s people.

“Herald! Join me!” Yin turned and saw the leader himself clearing a spot for him on one of the many logs. When he finally sat, the first thing he did was shovel a spoon of stew into his mouth. It was a little too salty. As if Harding had decided to cook everything in salt water from the sea. He swallowed thickly.

“It’s Yin,” he said after chasing the salt down with a sip from his flask. 

“Yin? Whatever you say, Boss,” Iron Bull said. “So, tried speaking to some of your friends.”

“How’d that go?” he laughed.

“Well, everyone is suspicious. Can’t say I wasn’t expecting that,” Bull rumbled. “And, y’know, that’s fine. Some of ‘em will come around, I’m sure. We can get to the real fun when they do.”

“And what’s real fun to you?”

“Getting paid to kill things,” he said. “You know, I think I heard a dragon roaring down the coastline. We should go get it!” Yin swallowed another bite with more alcohol, looking at him over his flask.

“We’re a bit pressed for time, but that sounds promising,” he said. Bull clapped him on the back, nearly jarring his skull out of his skin.

“Yin the Dragon Slayer! Sounds a lot better than Herald, yeah?” They sat in silence for a little bit. Yin watched Bull surveying the large group with his single eye. “Hey, is that elf okay? Everyone was a bit standoffish, but she just seemed out of sorts when I tried talking to her.” He was talking about Maori who seemed mostly unconscious with her head cast back against the wood. 

“Yeah, she’s just a little sick.” Solas approached her with her dose of magebane, touching her shoulder to rouse her. She tossed it back with a grimace, then slumped. Solas said something to her and then he was helping her up. They disappeared from the view of Chargers and Inquisition members silently.

“That guy is pretty sweet on her. They together?” Bull remarked. Yin wasn’t sure why he felt a surge of an acid emotion at that.

“No,” he said, but he did so with uncertainty. Bull hummed in his throat.

“Wanna make a bet?” 

“On…?”

“Them. Hooking up. If we’re gonna be doing a lot of travelling, it’s just something that happens,” Bull elbowed him in the ribs with a grin. “I’ll bet two months. Three, tops.” 

“Will it be two or three? One or the other,” the refined Tevinter voice asked. Dorian sat on the other side of him, eyes shining mischievously. Bull growled.

“Three,” he said.

“Good, because  I  bet two.”

“Slimy Vint.” 

“He’s not slimy, he’s just a bit wet,” Yin said, sharply aware of Dorian’s rather close proximity to him. Their shoulders and thighs were brushing. _Oh, I like games like this._

“Your bet, Yin,” Bull said. 

“Nah. It’s not what you think it is,” Yin said, smacking his lips as he took another sip. “Maori’s that kinda person that’s married to their duty.”

“Saving the world?” Dorian said, “Yes, but what was she like before this? Maybe she has a lover already. A family, perhaps?” Yin almost spurt alcohol out of his nose. “Solas most definitely has a Fade wife.” They all laughed, but Yin cut his short.

“I never asked her. Or Solas,” he said, curious. But he had a feeling the answer was no for both of them. “I can’t bet. Not after Redcliffe.” Dorian stiffened beside him.

“Ah. Nearly had stopped thinking about that for ten minutes,” he said. Yin offered the flask to him, which he accepted. “Dear mother of—what vile substance is this? Demon piss?” That had the Iron Bull laughing uproariously. “I think…there’s a hole in my throat.” 

“Sounds like Maraas-Lok! Can I have some?” Yin handed it to the Qunari who barely flinched. “Alright, that’s…pretty damn close.” He cleared his throat. “Wait till you try some Qun stuff.” 

“Seeing as I’ve already had some back in Antiva, I’d say the next level is who can drink the most of it,” Yin smirked. There were some  _ooh_ ’ s about the fire from those who overheard the challenge.

“The Iron Bull is undefeated! He can hold his drink better than a dragon!” the dwarf named Rocky said. 

“That’s funny, ‘cause last time I checked dragons didn’t drink,” Yin said. “Therefore no tolerance, therefore…what does that say about your Boss?” Dorian chuckled.

“Pretty sure that’s not how physics or physiology works, but it seems they are entertained,” he whispered. 

“He’s pretty big for an elf. He might even be able to match me longer than most, but in the end he’ll drop like the others,” Bull said. Yin took another drink.

“Never again shall we submit,” he recited, eliciting laughter around the fire. The elf named Dalish wasn’t amused. “After we close the Breach we will see who has a liver of steel!” 

The ice was broken some after that. Iron Bull continued to talk to him and Dorian for an hour or two until Solas reappeared without Maordrid, then he excused himself to be with his Chargers. The older elf had a bowl of stew in his hand, though it looked to be cold by then. Dorian decided to retire, leaving Yin and Cassandra the only ones awake in camp. 

“How is Maordrid doing?” Cassandra was the first to ask. Solas hovered a hand over his stew, heating it up and then sitting down with a sigh. 

“Exhausted, I think. She sits somewhere between the waking world and some kind of nightmare, even with the magebane,” Solas said. Cassandra thumbed the pommel of her sword in thought.

“She fought beside us today, despite her current state. She is not great with a steel sword, but her improvisation made her quite formidable,” Cassandra remarked. “She is a fan of throwing dust in the eyes of her foes.”

“I’d almost say you were fond of her, Cassandra,” Yin said. The Seeker’s eyes narrowed at him.

“I respect her skill. Yet her current predicament has me worried.” Solas looked at her, face smooth.

“She cannot be possessed while taking magebane, if that is what has raised your concern,” he said.

“What worries me is when she comes off of it—”

“I can assure you that we know what we are doing,” Solas said, words clipped. “I have been actively searching the Fade each night and have determined that the Breach is likely aiding to this entity’s strange abilities.”

“You no longer think it’s a Dreamer?” Yin asked. Solas sighed.

“I don’t think so. We are rare as it is. Why would a Dreamer be after her?” Cassandra and Yin shared a look.

“Did it ever cross your mind that she may have her own secrets? We may have ruled out Tevinter spy, but that leaves plenty other things to be imagined,” Cassandra said. “Leliana has still not verified anything of her past.”

“Is it not enough that she is here to help? That she has been since arriving? She has said multiple times that she would undergo Templar questioning,” Solas said. “What of the qunari spy?” Yin rubbed his knees with open palms, avoiding looking at the two of them.

“The difference is that Iron Bull was open with his position. With Maori, I’ll say I’m no longer convinced she is a threat. I’m  _less_ suspicious, but…yeah, that’s all I’ll say on the subject.” He hadn’t admitted it to Maori that he still clung to a few small but solid bits of odd detail. Her first nightmare when she had called out the name Dorian—then they met a Dorian. The ease with which she’d gotten along with him hadn’t helped her case. Forward to the future of Redcliffe, her exchange with Solas. He’d yet to try translating everything that had been said, but that they'd spoken fluently in an archaic dialect that made it difficult to make much sense of. It was alarming, as even his clan didn’t know enough to speak it exclusively. And what elven he _had_ spoken in front of Solas had only ended with the man subtly correcting his pronunciations.  _Shit, should I be suspicious of Solas too? Next I’ll be accusing Cassandra and Leliana and—gods, maybe this has gone too far._

“—not resolved after we close the Breach, I will consider approaching Cullen,” Cassandra was saying. 

“You would make her Tranquil, Seeker?” Solas asked coolly. Yin’s blood pressure spiked.

“Surely not…” Yin said, but Cassandra’s eyes were steely.

“This is no laughing matter,” she said. “I understand that you have an intricate knowledge of the Fade and demons, Solas, but something that can injure and potentially kill from it is where I would normally involve Templars. I am trusting your judgement and expertise for now, but you must know what looms behind you.” Solas bowed his head, dinner forsaken. His eyes looked like blue lightning from across the fire. “I am sorry, Solas.”

“I will do what I must. Good night, Seeker. Yin.” With that, Solas dumped his food into the fire and retreated to his tent. Cassandra remained standing, staring off into the damp dark.

“Did I do the right thing?” she wondered aloud. Yin’s heart was still pounding. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, mulling over everything.

“You’ve said some very difficult things. I wouldn’t have the stomach to say it, but it’s for the greater good, I think,” he finally said. “Though, we should have some faith in our friends. We’re some of Thedas’s best and brightest.” Cassandra finally sighed.

“You’re right. Thank you, Herald.” He offered her a smile.

“Get some rest, Cass. We march back first light.” She nodded and left him in silence. Despite Cassandra’s scathing words, Yin found himself feeling a fool. He should be helping Maordrid with her plight. He promised her silently that he would, as soon as they got done with the wound in the sky. She had protected him and it was time for him to pay it forward. 

  


\-----------------------------------------------------

  


Maori shut the book as soon as Solas reentered the tent. He’d a stormy expression on his face as he took a seat, then stared at her hard.

“What? ” she asked. He looked away, lip curled in a silent snarl, nose wrinkling slightly, then he shook his head.

“ At the first sign of trouble with mages, they panic.” He looked at her then.  “ It seems that if we fail to cleanse you of the presence they will consider making you Tranquil.” In the last two weeks she had endured nothing but cold sweats, headaches, and fever. But the sudden bone-deep chill and gooseflesh she felt now had nothing to do with the magebane. She was stunned.  “ I will help you escape before I let that happen.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you are needed here,” she said. Solas chuckled sourly.

“Perhaps, but the idea that no mage is safe from that fate does not sit well with me,” he said. “They may rattle the bars all they like, but I chose to walk into this cage. I won’t allow it.” She leaned back, looking up at the canvas and listening to the soft pattering of rain against it.

“And I won’t abandon you here,” she said softly. “Plus, the Inquisition is likely my best chance of surviving this.”  _I swore to stand beside you. I’ve a duty to protect you against yourself now._ Solas moved away from the entrance to sit across from her.

“You are probably correct,” he said with a sigh as he crossed his legs. “Then we must try. I will search the Fade again, if you are ready.” She watched his eyes slip shut and the rise of his shoulders with each breath began to slow.

“Solas?” He hummed in answer. Her brain seemed unable to connect this man to the Rebel of Arlathan. They had all employed tactics of dressing simply to gain the trust of the low-born, but to this day she marvelled over him. His humble posture, the rain-dampened threads that he wore, his quiet nature…she could only dream of truly mastering the essence of what had drawn so many to his cause. She had always been too selfish and egotistical. 

Maori had been staring for a long time without saying anything and now Solas was looking at her curiously. His eyes wandered along her face. Heat crept up her neck from embarrassment. 

“I seem to have forgotten my words,” she said, “Likely an untoward effect of the potion. I’m sorry.”

“I am sorry as well. I cannot begin to imagine what it is like to be without my magic. I suppose in a way I am here with you out of selfish reasons. One of many.” He looked off to the side distantly.

“But not because you  want to,” she said. He looked at her sharply. “It’s a threat that could involve more than myself. I understand.” Solas sighed, appearing exasperated though she wasn’t sure why. 

“No, I do not think you do, but perhaps you are right in that the magebane is interfering with your mind more than I thought.” He settled back again with his eyes closed, but peeked one open. “Sleep, now. I will be here.” This time she didn’t watch him out of some sick, deep-seated curiosity and lay back on her bedroll, quickly succumbing to sleep.


	23. Day in a Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name of the chapter inspired by the DAO soundtrack that happened to come onto my spotify as I was editing this stuff. I think it fits.

The next morning everyone woke up earlier than usual because rain had begun coming down in buckets, flooding tents and supplies. Suffice to say, the group packed up and left quickly. The eagerness to escape the rain had them making good time, perhaps two days’ distance in one.

Yin had decided on one thing—Solas and Iron Bull would never be brought together in the same party anywhere else. The same went with Bull and Dorian even though they barely spoke, Yin could not stand the bickering. He could see Bull, Sera, Blackwall in a group—with Vivienne to mediate—but trying to imagine the conversations there gave him symptoms of a headache.

If Yin hadn’t been battling his own small cold nearly a week later, he would have turned around and snapped at Bull when he decided to engage Maordrid. But as he was wont to do in potentially gossipy situations—in addition to his cold—Yin sat and eavesdropped. 

“We’ve barely been introduced and it’s been a week!” Bull boomed. “Heard a bit about you from the others.”

“Let me guess, you want to know more,” came her raspy reply. Yin covered his laugh by coughing, though with it came a fit. He drank some more elfroot and ginger tonic, cursing under his breath.

“Yeah! How could I not? Is it true you took down a massive demon with just a spear?” He had to admit, he’d never met anyone with Bull’s enthusiasm when it came to killing things. 

“Yes.” Bull crowed with laughter.

“I’ll bet you’re handy in a dragon fight,” he said. 

“Yes, but I like dragons.” Yin turned in his saddle, unable to  not say anything.

“Maori, have you killed a dragon before?” She held his gaze, unwavering.

“I don’t know, have I?” Yin facepalmed, snickering.

“That’s not how the line works,” he said. He almost felt bad for her, but then remember how sassy she could be when she wasn’t under the weather. “Try it again—have you killed a dragon?”

“Maybe.”

“Alone?” Iron Bull asked, leaning closer. She paused, sitting back in her saddle. Yin wished he could tell if she was in a playful mood, but her Wicked Grace-face was too good.

“My memory isn’t what it used to be,” she sighed. 

“Bullshit,” Yin said, then apologised to Bull who was scrutinising her.

“All right, so we may or may not have a dragon slayer in our midst. Whatever, we’ll all be dragon killers soon,” Bull said. He was silent for all but a minute. “Where did you say you were from?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“So, you from somewhere north? ‘Cross the Waking Sea like our Herald here?”

“You wouldn’t know it,” she said.

“Eh, I’ve been a lot of places because of my work. Try me!” he said, all smiles. 

“Why don’t you tell me of your Tamassran? Are you considered Tal-Vashoth yet? How does she feel about that?” She spoke with the pleasantness of ice going down one’s back. Bull hesitated, but she dove for the kill, “It is not pleasant to recall such things, is it?”

“Seems like you’ve got a lot pent up. It might help to talk about it,” Bull continued to press. Maori actually laughed.

“ _Maraas imekari_ ,” she cooed and Bull grunted uncomfortably. “I have made peace with my past. Many years before this moment—and you think you will be the one to banish my ghosts? To talk me through it? Such short-sighted thinking, but I should not have expected so much of you.” Yin heard her click her tongue and move away down the line. Bull whistled through his teeth.

“Don’t think you’ve gotten a whipping like that since you saved my arse,” Krem said, filling Maori’s place. 

“Eh, she’s got spirit. I like her,” Iron Bull said. Yin shook his head and continued riding.

  


\---------------------------------------------

  


The day they reached the little lake above Gherlen’s Pass, the weather was fair and warm enough that most of them elected to stopping for the day to resupply and bathe. After bartering and haggling for food at a nearby village the large party set up camp on the shores of the lake and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Dorian sat with Maori watching Solas attempting to teach Yin techniques to Rift magic while they shouted tips and critiques from the sidelines. 

“I swear, Maori, don’t think you’re out of the frying pan! You’re next!” Yin shouted back at them as he struggled against Solas’  Pull of the Abyss. “You’re gonna take up a sword and we’re gonna have at it. Even Cassandra said you needed practice with a real one.”

“Ah, yes, because Spirit swords aren’t real,” Maordrid deadpanned.

“Yin, why don’t you cast Veilstrike on Solas?” Dorian asked, getting tired of watching him lose. 

“Because he’s cheating and literally sucking all the stray magic out of the air somehow? It’s like he made the Veil all slippery!” Yin shouted, walking in place. Solas laughed.

“You could easily counter me if you had been paying attention. But instead you’ve been making eyes at Dorian and letting them distract you,” the elf said, creating a small ice storm above Yin. Dorian leaned over to Maori who, he noticed, had a small smirk on her lips. 

“He was looking at me?” he asked innocently. Maordrid tore her eyes away from them for a moment to glance at him.

“Quite a lot, actually. That’s why it’s so funny,” she said, “But don’t worry, you are just as bad.” Dorian was glad his complexion hid most reddening of his cheeks. When he turned his attention back to the duellers, Yin had thankfully broken free and was now advancing on Solas with a series of small stonefists.

“Try casting small Pulls, Yin! Throw him off balance!” Maori cheered. Yin immediately took her advice and Dorian saw little explosions of light where the tiny rifts were appearing. Solas was driven back and for a brief moment it looked as though Yin was going to win until the bald elf Fade stepped past Yin and blasted him with funnelled air that made the Herald stumble into the lake.

Solas hefted his staff over his shoulder and trudged back toward them with a glint in his eye.

“That was clever advice, Maordrid,” he said once he’d reached them, sitting beside her. 

“Don’t pretend he didn’t have you for a moment. That’s why you Fade stepped,” she teased. Solas chuckled.

“He did not say we couldn’t use other schools of magic,” he said. Maori rolled her eyes.

“It was implied, trickster,” she said, bumping him.

“To be fair, it was a duel to see how much he has learned,” Dorian interjected.

“For once we can agree,” Solas said. Yin finally rejoined them in squelching boots, glaring at Solas.

“Wipe that smug look on your face, cheater. One day, I will outsmart you,” Yin declared, then he shot looks at Dorian and Maori. “C’mon, you’re next.” Maordrid blinked.

“I’m not  bad with a sword,” she protested. “Not fair to judge that with my current condition.” Yin grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her away, leaving Dorian with Solas.

“Can Yin even sword fight?” Dorian asked him. Solas was watching them with amusement as they acquired swords from the camp.

“He claims he has experience and that Commander Cullen gave him a few pointers, though I’m not sure when he found the time,” Solas said. “I suppose we shall see if he has been bluffing or not.” Dorian repressed a grin and focused on them as the two returned to the bloodletting grounds armed with swords.

“Just so you know, these swords aren’t blunted,” Maori called over to them on the sidelines. Solas waved his hand and barriers shimmered over the blades. Dorian was surprised to see Yin grip the sword in a way he’d seen actual warriors do it. Even his stance seemed stable.

“I’m not going easy,” Yin said. Maori’s exaggerated huff was audible even from their spot. Then he charged. Maori spun her sword and gripped it behind her back, blade between her shoulders as she ducked away from his swipe. In fact, she bobbed and weaved away from all of his attacks—though to be fair, they were mostly thrusts and slow moving slices—which made her look like a master swordsman and Yin like a drunkard. Dorian made sure to vocalise that thought immediately, much to her amusement.

“Yin, perhaps you should close the distance instead of fighting two sword-lengths away? You might actually land a hit,” Solas said. The Herald growled and followed his advice. With his height against her short stature, Maordrid had no choice but to engage him with her sword now. The two exchanged a few ringing blows, with Yin initiating each attack. His strikes were almost always at head level and for a time it seemed to Dorian that he had the upperhand. Except, only physically. Maordrid stopped playing and eventually began throwing in strikes aimed at his legs and torso, putting Yin on the defensive. He was much better at parrying and blocking than going on the offensive, but that seemed to be Maori’s forte. She was quick and aggressive, turning her blade and adjusting her grip constantly to try different techniques. 

“Do you enjoy low guard because you’re so close to the ground?” Yin said, huffing out a laugh as he parried her again. None of them expected Maordrid to abruptly stop in her attacks and clutch her middle. Dorian got to his feet quickly, thinking she’d been hurt—Solas was almost halfway across shore to her when suddenly Maori let out a roaring laugh. Even Yin was taken aback. She laughed until there were tears in her eyes. Dorian cursed under his breath and sat back down. Solas rejoined him, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

“I didn’t think it was  _that_ funny,” Dorian said with raised eyebrows. “Is it an elf thing?” 

“No, I think that is just Maordrid,” he said as the two resumed duelling. This time, she employed reverse flowering to her attacks which clearly befuddled Yin. He couldn’t seem to figure out where to put his sword and kept yelping and back-peddling toward the water.

“Concede! I concede!” he shouted, Fade stepping to get away from her. 

“You are intimidated by a bit of flourishing?” she laughed. He threw his hands up. “Fair enough. I will teach you how to disrupt such tactics.” They began again, but Dorian noticed Cassandra had come down to watch. 

“She is teaching him?” she asked. Dorian raised an eyebrow, detecting what sounded like delicious jealousy in her voice. 

“It has been less teaching than it is a weathering of his pride,” Solas said with amusement.

“Perhaps it should be the reverse,” the Seeker said. “He needs true training so as not to instill poor habits or the wrong techniques. Flourishes are entirely unnecessary.” 

“Then perhaps you should offer yourself up?” Dorian said, humour properly dampened. “I thought Maordrid was doing fine. She is, after all, an Arcane Warrior.”

“But her skill is lacking with a material sword. He should learn the fundamentals of swordplay until he can summon and maintain a weapon like her. But even she relies too much on magic to secure victories for her,” Cassandra said. Dorian cleared his throat. 

“Then I suppose Solas and I should pack up and go home?” he said. Cassandra turned to face him.

“That is not what I mean,” she said, “I have the Herald’s best interests at heart.”

“As do we all, Seeker,” Dorian replied and left it at that. The woman seemed to sense the prickly atmosphere she had brought upon them and excused herself after a minute more of watching. Solas chuckling brought him back to the presence and looking to the sparring elves he found it was impossible to repress laughter. Yin had lifted Maori over his shoulders and was marching toward the lake with Maordrid screaming profanities and threats. They were quickly swallowed by the water, but the woman surfaced like some kind of terror from the depths and wrapped around Yin before he could escape, pulling him into the undoubtedly chilly lake. His screech was no less undignified than hers.

They returned from the water sopping wet but with childish grins on their faces. 

“I think my elf-dunking techniques are quite refined,” Yin said, shaking his hair out. Dorian flicked flecks of water from his clothes.

“You smell of wet dog,” he said. “Although I am convinced all bodies of water in the south smell of such.” 

“I agree. But you must admit, the wet Antivan looks good on me.” Yin flexed his muscles through his white shirt. 

“Yin thinks he looks attractive no matter what he is doing,” Maordrid said.

“It’s an Antivan thing,” he said, winking. 

“I won’t disagree. They also make excellent wine,” Dorian said. 

“Well, gentlemen. I am not Antivan and I’m certain wet is not a good look on me. I’m going to get warm,” Maori announced, teeth gritted against the cold. Solas joined her on the walk back, leaving them on the shore.

“I’m sure a particular someone disagrees with her statement,” Dorian said after they were gone.

“What’s that look?” Yin asked him, taking off his shirt and wringing it out. 

“Oh, I just really want to win that bet. Iron Bull fancies himself skilled at judging character,” Dorian mused, “Unfortunately for him, I am as well.” Yin straightened, staring out after Solas and Maordrid.

“So?” he said.

“His eyes barely left her. Oh, and when we all thought she was spontaneously dying? He reacted faster than I did. Those signs bode well for my bet!” Dorian twiddled his fingers together excitedly. He was somewhat put out to see Yin’s face as plain as the white cotton on his chest. “I know you don’t like it. But a thousand gold to be right? I love being right and I hate losing.” Yin shrugged.

“He’s watching her because she’s taking magebane. Dunno what the effects could be after a week of that poison. I thought she was going to drop dead back there, so I don’t blame him.” Yin scrubbed a hand through his hair uneasily. “You already know why I don’t even want to think about it. I’ve had nightmares every time I’ve gone to sleep since Redcliffe.” 

“Do you want me to read you bedtime stories and sing lullabies? I don’t know any Dalish folktales, unfortunately,” Dorian said. Yin finished drying his shirt with a fire spell. 

“We Dalish would strip down to our smalls and hide under a blanket to tell stories. It’s the only way to stave off nightmares, Dorian,” Yin said very seriously. “Otherwise the fear will scare your pants off and you’ll never find them. It’s said the Bringer of Nightmares curses them so you can never find another pair.” 

“You know, that’s so absurd I’d almost believe it.” Dorian conjured a bit of water from the ground to put out the small flames Yin hadn’t seen on the back of his shirt. “However, in  Tevinter , we do something far more scandalous to ward off nightmares…”


	24. In Your Heart Shall Burn (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we're finally here.
> 
> I know I said I was taking a break, but I lied.  
> There's no escape from Dragon Age hell.

Days later, they arrived. She didn’t want to say she was glad to be back in Haven, but that was exactly what she felt when the crude wooden walls came into sight. Her bottom was sore and her vertebrae felt jarred out of place from the awful roads. She had stopped taking the magebane a day before since they planned on closing the Breach either the next day or the day after. She would need her magic, no excuses.

The withdrawal from using magebane for two weeks was unpleasant, however. Perhaps the prolonged side effects would be useful to a scholar or an herbalist somewhere.  Sweats, fever, and the occasional _hallucination_. All aches and pains aside, her wounds had healed to scars thanks to Solas’ skill.

As they were all removing packs and things from the horses, she felt a slight tug at her side and looked around, expecting yet another hallucination. There were too many people milling about but when she checked her purse to see if it had been cut, it was still intact. Something crunched in her pocket when she patted it down. Maori hurriedly gathered what little she had and wandered away from the clump, pulling the note from her pocket and hiding it in her palm. The note was written in cipher, but she recognised it immediately and translated  _thatch, out, wall_.  She crumpled it and placed it back in her pocket before joining the others where they were accumulating near the gates.

“We’re going to hold a council in two hours to discuss the plans. I’d like everyone to be there,” Yin announced to everyone, and then they dispersed. Once she was certain no one was going to approach her again for conversation, she slipped away toward the little thatched hut outside of the wall. At only a few paces from the door, she checked the area for prints and signs of others but found it clear. Her magic had not yet recovered fully from the magebane, which made her uneasy about going in blind. She could not remember the last time she’d been so helpless.

Maori pushed the door open and slipped inside. It was dark and dusty and cold, but across from the door was a brazier with a little fire inside. Standing before it warming their hands was someone in a winter cloak with a fur-lined hood pulled up. They turned at her entrance and removed the hood. 

“Inaean?” Maori gasped, dropping her things and rushing forward. The women embraced in the middle of the room, laughing joyously. Inaean cupped her face between her hands, copper eyes taking in her appearance. “ _What are you doing here?_ ”

“ _Word came from Firra. I had to see for myself_ ,” Inaean said.  “ _What have they done to you, Yrja?_ ”

“ _Not them. Me. Something hunts me in the Fade_ , ” she laughed,  “ _I elected to taking magebane until the chaos dies down enough for me to investigate._ ” Maordrid pushed a strand of dark hair over Inaean’s ear with a smile.  “ _You thought I was dead, then?_ ”

“ _You were getting so close to the magister. And then the explosion happened. One survivor. You cannot blame us for thinking something terrible_ ,” she said.  “ _Even so, you should not have survived. What happened? I do not know if I believe Firra’s explanation._ ” And so Maordrid explained in more detail than she had allotted Firra, as she was talking to Ghimyean’s younger brilliant sister. At the end, the elf was pensive, but nodded.  “ _Dorian Pavus sounds like a genius._ ”  Maordrid laughed.

“ _If he heard you say that, it would go straight to his head._ ” 

“ _Ah, right, Tevinter?”_ She nodded. “ _I take it back then._ ” 

“ _I should tell you, I go by Maordrid in this timeline,_ ” she said. Inaean raised an eyebrow. 

“ _Wasn’t Maordrid the name of that old wandering knight we encountered north of the Donarks?_ ”  Maordrid laughed.

“ _Solas was the first to ask my name and that’s what I thought of. It isn’t a name he will know_ , ” she said.

“ _I’m sure that knight would be pleased that his name lives on several thousand years later._ ”  They lapsed into momentary silence, remembering old lives. 

“ _Do we have people in Haven?_ ” Maori asked. Inaean nodded.

“ _They came with me through the ranks of the Circle mages. They all have ways of getting messages to the rest of our network,_ ” Inaean gave pause, “ _How’s it like being so close to Fen’harel? You know, now that he’s awake?_ ” The question threw her off. She wasn’t sure how to answer, but not giving one was perhaps the worst. 

“ _He is different than he once was. Burdened and sorrowful. A...little shortsighted. He sees the elves of today as lesser_ ,” she said slowly.  “ _I see a man in need of guidance. Where he passed ages in slumber, you and I have lived each day awake and adapting. This world is flawed, but so was ours. It is up to the Elu’bel to stitch together the best of both worlds._ ” Inaean gave a gentle smile, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“ _This is why you are a better leader than Ghimyean could have been. I know, I know, you hate the word leader or Commander, but you know everyone except a few see you as such. See, Ghimyean would have seen Solas killed soon after the Veil was lifted. You chose to watch and wait before making a call. And you still are! They will all see reason, Maordrid._ ”

“ _You think me soft. I am flawed in my ways and that is why I need the Elu’bel to balance me out,_ ” Maori said. Inaean let out silvery laughter.

“ _You admit it, though. That is more than what many of our own can say for themselves_ ,” she said, “ _Fortunately, you will not have to rely on us ancients. You have these quicklings, no? When will you reveal yourself to them?_ ”  Maordrid had been mulling over it almost all day and decided not too long after entering the thatched hut.

“ _To Dorian, today, tomorrow, soon? If something happens to me during the fight, I have faith in him,_ ”  she said. Inaean looked askance at her.

“ _That’s quite a lot. You’d hand operations over to him?_ ”

“ _Dorian is a lot more capable than you think. But let us hope that does not come to pass._ ” Inaean bowed at the waist.

“ _Then you have my support. I will do what I can._ ” When she straightened there was a glint in her eye.  “ _I must ask though—when will you have time to slip away?_ ” Maordrid shrugged.  “ _Firra wasn’t lying when she said I found someone that can teach you how to dragon. Send word to me once you’re certain you can slip away for a week._ ”

“ _You will hear from me._ ” Inaean pulled her hood up again.

“ _I would stay longer, but Firra gave an in-depth report about what you have in that little book of yours. Everyone is scrambling, calling favours and pulling strings all across the map. I’ve been tasked with infiltrating the Vir Dirthara._ ”

“ _And I must figure a way to convince a mortal that I am a time traveller._ ”  Inaean laughed loudly.

“ _Don’t break the poor boy’s mind, friend_ ,” she said. “ _Dareth shiral, Maordrid._ ”  Then she was gone.

Maordrid sighed and knelt beside her pack, pulling out the amulet that past-Dorian had given her as well as the perfected voice-crystal that he had made. Magister Dorian had said there was a chance the two objects wouldn’t be enough to convince his other self, but had said that if she could bring him into the Fade and replay some memories, that would likely do the trick. Inquisitor Yin had nearly had a fit when he saw the amulet in her possession. Apparently Yin had gone through quite a bit of trouble to retrieve it for Dorian and the object in itself had meant a great deal to them both.

In the end they agreed that their relationship was less important than the fate of the world. 

Tucking the pendants into her pockets, Maordrid set off toward Haven.

  


  


\---------------------------------

  


Everyone gathered within the hall of the Chantry two hours later. While they had been travelling the week after Redcliffe, Josephine reported that a large chunk of the mages had arrived in Haven. Solas confirmed that the numbers would be enough to close the Breach and that they could do it as soon as the Herald was ready. Cullen’s troops were prepared as well, should they need them. 

“I just want to get it over with,” Yin said when they asked his opinion. “Tomorrow, noon.” Maodrid’s stomach dropped. So little time.

“ Tomorrow, we triumph,” Cassandra repeated, sounding pleased. The council was quickly adjourned for everyone but the inner council and the Herald, so Maordrid set off quickly to retrieve her staff from Solas’ cabin. He was not yet there, likely still lagging behind, but that was fine. She brought the material back to hers and set to work, carving away imperfections the way Solas had shown her. While it would be lacking the enchantment of the two mages working together, she figured she could add it later when her magic had fully returned. After she’d cut it into the shape she wanted, Maordrid took her supplies to the blacksmith where she met the perpetually disgruntled smith. He didn’t seem to care what she did, so long as she stayed out of the way and didn’t break his tools. He even told her she could use whatever materials were leftover from other projects. Maordrid grabbed a hammer, some small iron stakes the size of her little finger, and a fine-tipped chisel. She started with the engraving first, taking the chisel and slowly cutting the words to an ancient elven spell into the wood.  _Soun_ to convince the wood it was strong,  _sou’eireth_ to fortify the winter spirit within it. When the words were inlaid, she took the iron stakes and had Harritt smelt them down. At that point, he decided to hover over her curiously.

“Aren’t you a mage?” he asked as he stoked the smelting fire.

“Yes,” she said. 

“But a blacksmithing mage?” he grunted. 

“I had a friend. Refused to give me armour or weapons until I understood the process, at least on a superficial level,” she said. Harritt laughed.

“Bet he didn’t have many customers,” he said.

“No, but the ones he did have paid a king’s ransom for his work. He knew what he was doing,” she said. The old man hawked and spat into the embers, showing her what he thought of that. 

“So whaddya want to do with this stuff?” he said, grabbing the tongs. She put on a glove and took them from him. “Roight. If ya burn your hands off, don’t come cryin’.” 

“Do you have any lyrium potions?” she asked. 

“Five gold,” he said. She was relieved that Lady Montilyet had paid her that day. Everyone got a decent sum of gold. Harritt pocketed the payment and tossed her a vial which she promptly downed. She had conflicting feelings on lyrium, but she was tired of not having her magic. As the substance absorbed into her body, she felt the well begin to refill and immediately tapped into it, using a stream of magic to manipulate a thread of liquid iron into the grooves of the staff. With a dose of winter and air, she fed it into the wood around the hot metal, simultaneously cooling it and sucking the air from the spot to prevent the wood from burning. Before long, she was looking upon a shimmering script of elven along the grip of the staff. With a touch, she imbued the words with power and watched with pleasure as the grains in the wood glowed white and then dulled again.

“You just enchanted that yourself?” Harritt exclaimed from behind her.

“I wasn’t expecting it to work. Wild experiment,” she said. “I was a terrible student to my blacksmith.”

“Still might not work. Could explode on you soon as you go to cast.” She laughed.

“You’re probably right. Thank you for your help, Master Harritt.” The human grunted something and walked away, shouting at an apprentice for hammering with the wrong end of the tool. Meanwhile, Maordrid applied the finishing touches to the staff with the lustrious cotton and little wired stones. 

Then she set off toward the practice yard, carefully spinning the staff to find its balance. Just as she passed in front of Haven’s gates, Yin appeared alone. 

“Oh, look at you with your Solas-approved staff!” he said, holding his hand out. She passed it to him and sensed him inspecting it with magic. “Where is he? I’d think he’d want to test out your creation.” She felt her cheeks threatening to blush, which was…strange.

“He only helped me carve it. I did the rest.” Yin raised an eyebrow.

“Pretty good for your first staff,” he said handing it back. “Let’s go test it out on the lake. Dummies don’t like fire very much.” 

On the lake, she experimented with the different schools of magic. The staff pulled ice from the Fade like a man desperate for water and the strength of its winter glyphs were impressive, withstanding Yin’s attempt with fire to erase part of the writing. Fire, obviously, was almost impossible to cast with the staff. At most, she could cast a feeble fireball. 

“Remember, you’re recovering from magebane still so your spells might not be as powerful as they could be,” Yin said some way across the lake as he shot a torrent of billowing flame from the end of his staff. Maordrid tried a barrier with the staff, casting it from the tip to see if it could create an Aegis of some sort. The most she could get was a half dome that would function well against a Meteor Strike or a volley of arrows, but no direct attacks. 

Their session lasted all of ten minutes before they were interrupted by a surprise guest. Cullen stood at the shore in the snow and waved at them. 

“You’re quite the popular one,” Yin whispered when Cullen called her name. 

“Doesn’t Scout Harding refer to you as  your Worship ?” she teased back. Yin scoffed. 

“Gimme your staff, I want to play with it,” he said. 

“Whatever your Worship says,” she said, bowing and presenting it with both hands. 

“You know how easy it would be to crack open the ice with this staff and drop you into the water?” Yin grabbed the staff and Fade Stepped away as Cullen decided to join her instead.

“May I have a word?” he asked. She nodded warily, but followed him toward a more private part of the lake, away from the noise. When both Haven and the Herald were in field of view, Cullen stopped and crossed his arms. “Cassandra approached me with some troubling news.” Maordrid’s heart dropped and it must have shown on her face, for Cullen waved his hands to placate her. “I just wanted to tell you myself that I wouldn’t put that upon you. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” For a moment she was suspended in disbelief, but quickly snapped back into suspicion.

“I—thank you,” she said. “But if there is a chance that I may impose a danger to others, I will leave the Inquisition on my own.” 

“That is why I won’t agree to what Cassandra suggested. It’s just a feeling, but from the way you hold yourself I can see you’re no stranger to duty. You’ve seen war and you’ve proved to be a guardian of the innocent,” he said. “The reports that I’ve seen aren’t lacking in praise for you.” Maordrid huffed.

“I haven’t done much in the last two weeks. The magebane took a toll on me,” she said. 

“You’ve thrown yourself into danger a few times to protect someone else. I can’t say that some of my own men would do that,” he said. “Look, just know that I’ll advocate for you if the subject comes up again. And…Solas seems determined to resolve whatever it is that is going on. I’m not sure how much I trust him, but he’s good at what he does.” 

“May I ask what brought this on? Why are you…doing this?” she asked, perhaps a bit too harshly. Cullen sighed, a cloud appearing before his lips as his burnished amber eyes wandered the landscape.

“I feel awful about how you were treated when you arrived here. Wounded, thrown into the cells. You could have died from infection. Then we all but forgot about you, really. The others seem content to forget it ever happened, but it guilts me,” he said. Something in her softened and she found herself reaching out, resting a hand on his arm.

“All is forgiven, Commander,” she said, withdrawing awkwardly. “And…should you ever need anything, my strength is yours.” Cullen smiled, an endearing thing, and turned to watch the lake where Yin was now with Varric…doing something. 

“Keep an eye on that dwarf and elf. Every time I’ve heard them talking they’ve been discussing explosives or poisons,” Cullen said. He winked at her. “Drink, later?” 

“Certainly,” she said with a bow. He nodded and departed silently. Then she walked down to reclaim her staff from the Herald. 

“So I hear you’re a fan of explosions,” was the first thing out of Varric’s mouth. She eyed them both.

“I was just warned about this,” she said, to Varric’s amusement.

“Yeah, Curly hasn’t quite come around to trusting me since Blondie blew up the Chantry,” he said. “And now that he knows I was in town when the sky exploded, he just thinks I’m a bad luck dwarf.”

“We’re the bad luck duo, you understand,” Yin said. Varric patted him on the back.

“But together, we’re genius,” Varric said. “So. You’ve got some…explosive components to that staff of yours, our glowbug friend tells me?” Maordrid wasn’t sure if she should tell them she was more than a fan of explosives. She had a slight obsession. Gaatlok and lyrium made for devastating bombs. And while she didn't have access to Gaatlok, there were other reagents out there that she knew of.

“Ever heard of a virulent bomb?” she said, lowering her voice. They nodded. “I’ve a modified spell that incorporates a lingering flammable miasma. But I didn’t tell you that.” Varric whistled and Yin paled.

“So…is there a way to translate that into crossbow bolts?” Varric asked. Maordrid grinned. Andruil would not be pleased to know what secrets of hers were about to be revealed.

  


\-----------------------------------------

_They swarmed the snowy hills like a plague. Thousands of crystals blinking like red eyes. Infectious, deadly, merciless. Templars, abominations, a nightmare such as no one has ever seen. Leading the charge is Corypheus himself and Raleigh Samson serving as his left hand. Watch out for the blighted dragon, too. Took out a trebuchet like it was made of straw. Lot of people in trouble in the village, I’ll list the areas we found ‘em in. -Varric_

_Yrja, this is the first time we see Corypheus with the orb. With the dragon present it may be impossible to take it from his hands…but if you are fast, well, I might bring the mountain down on his head to buy you some time to escape. It’s high risk though. Your plan to acquire it later is probably the safer route anyway. Hey, but you won’t need any of this if you go far enough back in time, right? Godspeed, lethallin. —Yin_

_If my spell failed and you’ve made it this far, I can’t say there’s much you can do to improve Haven’s outcome, I’m afraid. I see Yin suggested attempting to steal the forbidden black egg from Corypheus’ grip. Not a bad idea, really, but keep in mind that he’s quite powerful. I’m sure you already knew that. Good luck. -Dorian_

_[Below is a list of names, locations. Another list is below that of red-lyrium infused enemies and their weaknesses.]_

  


It was noon of the next day. Maordrid closed the book and tucked it away with Dorian’s pendants in a satchel, securing it with a length of leather. 

Ahead loomed the shattered Temple of Sacred Ashes, bathed in the verdant light of the Fade. Directly in front of her rode Yin flanked by Cassandra and Solas. To her right was Dorian who had officially been welcomed into the Inquisition and on her left was Varric who was stroking Bianca with a single finger as he gazed distrusting at the Breach like it was some shifty ruffian. Iron Bull, Sera, Vivienne, Blackwall were scattered in the other directions. And behind them was the growing Inquisition—mages and soldiers together.

At the top, they all took positions around the epicentre of the explosion, though Dorian, Vivienne, Solas, and herself all joined Yin at the bottom.

“What an anomaly,” Dorian said beside her, still looking up. “I can’t imagine what created this.” 

“Would you be surprised to learn that the answer is closer to you than you think?” she murmured. Dorian’s head lowered slowly, eyes wide.

“What do you me—”

“Mages!” Cassandra bellowed, stepping forward. Maordrid gave Dorian a knowing look and stepped away, preparing her magic for the call.

“Focus past the Herald, let his will draw from you!” Solas shouted, raising his staff above his head. The air thickened like layered spider’s silk as a hundred mages opened themselves to Lavellan. The Herald walked forward into a stream of green, pushing through it with great effort. The Mark in his hand sputtered to life and glowed like an angry green diamond. She watched with utter amazement as the future Inquisitor thrust his hand into the air and a column of green magic exploded forward, shooting into the heart of the Breach like a spear.

For a moment, the gaping maw bulged and pulsed as if fighting back…and then with an earth-shaking boom, it closed, an invisible shockwave throwing every standing person onto their backs. A mushroom cloud of dust, coughs, and groans rose throughout the ruins. Maordrid got to her feet and saw Cassandra pushing her way through people to Yin who was kneeling where he had previously been obscured by the tongue of the Fade. 

“You did it,” she breathed as he rose to his feet. He smiled, and the Temple was filled with sounds of elation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, at the end last year I had to switch to a new word processor (because Write! App suddenly started crashing on me) and this new one is absolute shite at retaining format once transferred over here. I apologise for the hiccups wherever they may be.


	25. In Your Heart Shall Burn (II maori pov)

Maordrid wandered through Haven an hour after Yin Lavellan’s great feat, watching the celebration with numbness. She had retrieved the lute from Solas’ cabin while he was out and was slowly making her way through the village checking and removing hazards that the book had detailed, hoping it would save some lives. With carefully chosen words, she convinced one or two of those people to join the revelry closer to the centre of the village where they would be safe. 

Another hour had passed and she had checked the trebuchets and dropped two healing potions padded in thick cotton into the mining shaft. 

She found herself sitting on the dock at the frozen lake, strumming the melody to _Ara Ean’elgara,_ an old song about a wisp’s journey across Thedas in the days before the Veil. A group of villagers were sliding around the ice below her, giggling and sloshing ale as they celebrated. 

“You are missing from the party,” a voice said, approaching from behind. 

“As are you,” she replied as Solas sat beside her, dangling his feet off of the dock. She switched the song to something more modern but with similar chords.

“What occupies your mind such that you prefer to be alone, _lethallin_?” he asked. The satchel at her side felt like it had been emanating heat all day, but she found her heart’s trouble lay elsewhere. Slowly, her fingers stopped moving along the strings.

“Being at the Temple reminded me of things lost,” she said. “I was simply remembering a memory I had seen in the Fade, one that I have revisited many times over the years.” He looked at her thoughtfully.

“Share it with me,” he said. The gentle earnestness of his voice was not something she could refuse. 

So she went on, “It was a recollection of a man’s life that a spirit helped me piece together. This man…he was a good person with a strong heart. Helped countless people and changed his surroundings more than I could ever hope to.” She paused, taking a deep breath, but never looked at him though she could feel his eyes. “But it wasn’t enough. The world was too big to be molded by a single man. Somewhere, sometime, it broke him.” 

“What happened to him?” Solas asked. Maori set the lute down between them.

“He fought back, of course. But by that time he was on the wrong side. His friends tried to help him see his errors, but eventually they fell or fled. The memories ended before I could find out how his story ended.” Solas was pensive—silent. “The person—or people that created the Breach…they wish to change the world somehow. Somehow, they think the world they envision will be better for an obscure group of people. And lives will be lost.”

“Do you think the world is fine as it is?” he asked, and what a loaded question it was.

“As opposed to the days of Elvhenan? Or do you refer to the people of the world?” she said. Solas paused.

“You said you have seen memories of Arlathan. You have seen what it once was,” he said. She nodded.

“A world once permeated with magic. Peoples that lived forever,” she said. “But even it was not without flaws, Solas. No matter what age you look at, people struggled. That is reality. The man in my dream—there have been hundreds of men just like him. There will be a _thousand_ more. And that is the beauty of it.” She sighed, knowing nothing would be changed in one sitting. “I don’t know why I am telling you any of this. Perhaps I am afraid.” 

She never did get to hear his thoughts. A single bell resounded through the air, echoing across the ice—a herald of doom. She closed her eyes as more bells followed. 

“What is going on?” Solas said, standing up. She rose with him, eyes turned toward the horizon. Cullen’s voice rose above the clamour, crying out the warning. An army was coming over the ridge. Without a word, Solas grabbed her hand and then they were running, joining the villagers from the lake. The lute would be buried beneath the mountain, forgotten forever.

At the gates, most of the Inquisition had gathered around Cullen. 

“One watch guard reporting. It’s a massive force—the bulk of it over the mountain,” he was saying. 

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked.

“None.” 

“None?” Her surprise was echoed across all faces. Yin pushed past them, eyes pinned to the closed gates. Maordrid jumped back when they banged, fire flashing through the cracks.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” a young man cried from outside. Hearing the distress in the voice, Yin ran down the rest of the steps and opened the gates. A behemoth of a man in Tevinter armour awaited on the other side and advanced as soon as the doors opened.

“Clos—” Yin began to order but then stopped when a silver point pierced through the grey flesh of the berserker. The corpse fell and in its stead stood a gangly young boy wearing some kind of helm over a floppy hat. _Compassion_ , she thought, and she saw the spirit’s head turn toward her as though he had heard her thoughts. They all ran outside, observing the carnage that the lone boy had wrought. 

“I’m Cole! I came to warn you—to help! People are coming to hurt you…you probably already know—”

“What is this? What is going on?” Yin demanded. 

“The Templars come to kill you,” the boy in rags said. Cullen shook his head.

“Templars! Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?” he asked, though it seemed rhetorical. Cole danced back, face grim.

“The Templars went to the Elder One. You know him? He knows you,” he said, pointing to Yin, “You took his mages. There…” He turned and with his other hand pointed off into the distance, a hill protruding above the trees. Figures crested it, but even from there Maordrid could see the impossibly large Tevinter magister and his cronies. _The Conductor of Silence._ “Yes,” Cole whispered, hearing her. “He is very angry that you took his mages.” 

“Cullen…a plan here? Anything!” Yin spun, looking at his Commander, but even he looked uncertain.

“Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can.” He drew his sword and rotated, taking them all in. “Mages! You have sanction to engage them! That is Samson and he will not make it easy! Inquisition, with the Herald!” A battlecry rose from the ranks and then they were moving. Yin called her, Dorian, Solas, and Bull to his side and the five of them rushed down to the trebuchets. Much earlier, Maordrid had discreetly positioned them where they needed to be and made sure they were loaded—she’d drawn glyphs on the ammunition to ensure maximum damage as well. A few stray red templars trickled in, but recognising them as knights struck them with fire and lightning. Solas and Dorian caught on quickly, stunning them for Bull to cut down. Once they ensured the soldiers were safe, they ran down the path to the trebuchet past the blacksmith’s forge where the trebuchet was surrounded by advancing Venatori soldiers. With a roar, Bull charged, forcing their attention to him. The mages sent a barrage of fire, ice, and spirit onto the enemy. Archers spread about the field looking to get an in on them, but Maordrid chased after them, spinning her staff and summoning a sword that threw her first opponent offguard but to which her second was savvy to. As she ducked beneath a blow from his bladed bow, she came up only to see him stiffen from a bolt of ice thrust through his helm. Turning, she saw Solas nod and engage another enemy that died beneath Bull’s great axe.

“It’s clear!” she shouted to Yin who gave the order to release. They all watched, sweaty and nervous as the trebuchet launched the missiles into the mountainside, unleashing a wave of white death upon the sea of Venatori. For a moment, she saw how they thought they’d won in the past. Even Solas cheered with the others.

But she heard the wings of the dragon above the revelry, their cue to get away from the trebuchet. Yin was standing too close. Maordrid launched herself at him, tackling him out of the way just as the dragon came swooping in, blasting the siege machine to splinters with a torrent of red lyrium fire and arcing back up into the sky.

“Today is now well beyond making sense!” Dorian shouted. 

“Everyone to the gates!” Yin shouted after they’d gotten to their feet. 

“Don’t need prompting for me, Boss!” Bull said, hauling off. They all ran for the gates, but Maordrid spotted the first man on the list. Harritt was foolishly trying to bust down the door to his hut. Mindblasting it open, Harritt thanked her and rushed in. She shouted at him to hurry and made sure he’d gotten his things, shoving him out when he took too long. Then they ran.

“Move it! Move it!” Cullen was pulling people through the gates when they arrived, shutting it when no one else came immediately. “We need everyone back to the Chantry! It’s the only building that might hold against that beast! At this point…just make them work for it.” Yin turned to the others.

“Let’s grab people on the way,” he said. 

Slowly, but surely they rounded folk up, sending them on their way while fighting off invaders. When they finally reached the Chantry, an old man in robes was ushering people in, clutching his middle as though he’d been wounded. Compassion stood behind him, a silent figure. 

“Move! Keep going! The Chantry is your shelter!” the man named Roderick called. Inside, Maordrid scanned the faces of the refugees and recognised a few of her own. She broke away from the group and approached the Elu’bel spy who immediately straightened at her approach.

“My Lady?” For all that she appeared meek and shaken, her eyes were fearless and eager. 

“If I don’t return, you are to stay with the Inquisition. Report to Inaean. Tell her to approach our allies,” she whispered. The spy bowed.

“What strength of lyrium potion, my Lady?” she asked as someone passed by. _How long until I send out?_

“A two to one dose,” Maordrid decided. _Two months. Worst case scenario._ The servant bowed again and melded in with the crowd.

“Maori! Let’s go!” She took a shallow breath and jogged out after Yin and the others as they went off to hold the front line. 

“I understand the strategy, but I usually avoid drawing this much attention,” Solas was saying outside the building. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Yin said, slipping into a battle stance as they were immediately attacked. They fought, grimly pushing through their enemies. With five of them pushing the offense, Bull and Maordrid pushed the front while the other mages watched their flanks, always maintaining a barrier on the two. 

Once they reached Haven’s inner wall, enemies were jumping over to attack. 

“We’ve got to get to that trebuchet!” Yin shouted, launching a Stonefist at an archer’s head. With the help of Dorian and Solas, three of them raised a wall of ice to stave off anymore intruders from jumping over the gaps in the wall.

At the clearing with the siege machine, they were swarmed despite erecting their ice barrier. Maordrid went toe-to-toe with a spellcaster that had appeared, vaulting over a glyph with her staff, triggering it to explode. It completely deteriorated her barrier, but in trade she kicked the man into a fire rune set by Dorian just behind him. Another explosion shook the ground near the wall, sending a plume of dust and snow into the air. 

“What is  that?” Yin shrieked as a mountain of red emerged.

“I dunno, but I don’t care to ask it!” Bull charged at it with his axe and nearly had his head lopped off by a massive swinging crab-claw. “Mao, jump!” The Qunari knelt and she saw an opening, sprinting and using him as a ramp. Bull stood up swiftly, launching her into the air. Conjuring her spear, she pointed her staff down at the monstrosity below and unleashed a storm of ice on the creature. Some of the lyrium cracked, but the attack only seemed to enrage him. The claw swiped blindly in the air before she could change trajectory and knocked her to the side like a fly. She tumbled into the snow, air forced out of her lungs. 

“Get up!” Dorian shouted at her from behind a flurry of spells. She immediately saw why—a geyser of red crystals were coming straight at her. With a push of air, she rolled to her feet, grabbed her staff and upon casting, was immediately thrown back again. This time, she was flung into the side of a rock face. 

“Maordrid!” Consciousness threatened to leave, but some feral little thing inside of her made her muscles contract, pushing her to all fours. Laying in the snow before her were the broken halves of her freshly made staff. It had clearly malfunctioned, just as the blacksmith had predicted. With a groan, she got to her feet, pissed off. In her brief fight for consciousness, the others had beaten back the monster that was letting out screeches of agony. Bull jabbed his axe into the the thing’s chest, knocking loose a chunk of lyrium. Her opening.

Maordrid took a running start for a familiar finish, launching her spear across the clearing. With the sound of shattering glass, it lodged itself in the creature’s chest. 

“Shit yeah!” Bull cheered as it finally died. Maordrid limped back into the area as Yin finished positioning the last and largest trebuchet. Her aching brain knew something else was about to happen, but the knowledge slipped away like an oily shadow. 

She was swiftly reminded when that shadow flew over them with a screech.

“Move. MOVE!” Yin cried, backing away. “NOW!” It was Dorian that grabbed her this time, sprinting almost too quickly for her legs to keep up. Behind, something exploded and she stopped, remembering.

“Dorian, wait!” she cried. She had to dig her heels into the dirt, but he stopped and looked back, terrified.

“What? Oh no, Yin!” 

“I’m going back,” she said, unbuckling the satchel from her waist. She shoved it into his hands. “This is a book. There are pages marked for you. Don’t look at the others—I’ll explain why next we meet.” His hand snapped out, grabbing her before she could go.

“Are you insane? You’re going to die!” he said. 

“You’ll understand later. Go. Tell the others I’ve gone for Yin.” Then, she turned and shifted into a black hawk, launching into the air. Dorian’s gasp was enough to tell her _something_ had finally clicked.

She circled higher and higher, looking down on the scene below. Yin was standing before the ancient magister and his dragon, a Dalish elf defiant before death. She heard the voice that had haunted her dreams, clear and commanding of that which the magister deemed lesser than dirt. The Herald spoke, asking him to help him understand and being refused. 

And then it was revealed—the orb, black as obsidian and humming with power even from her height. 

She dove, growing in size and velocity.

Her wings spread, catching the air, slowing her down just enough that her talons closed around the focus. And then she was beating her wings as hard as she could make her muscles go. Below, the magister bellowed a command—it all happened so fast.

A flare in the sky.

A trebuchet firing.

The warping of the air as a powerful spell wrapped around her wings. She screamed as the focus fell from her grip. Another spell slammed into her, throwing her from the air

The world roared around her…

And then there was darkness.


	26. Winter's Emerald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **eeeeEEEEEEeeeee!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy beating my characters up.  
> Just hope it doesn't turn anyone away. Forewarning, just in case. It'll get worse a few chapters from now. I promise they're not suffering in vain.

Dorian was the last to reach the doors of the Chantry, helping Solas and Bull to close them. Once they were safe, he looked at the parcel that Maordrid had thrust into his hands before turning into a bird. 

“Wait, where is Yin?” Solas asked. “Maordrid?” Dorian looked up.

“Ah, shit,” Bull said. 

“She went back for Yin,” Dorian told him. Solas made a strangled noise and lurched toward the doors as if he was going to save them himself, but Iron Bull grabbed both his arms.

“No! NO!” he begged. A field of magic sprung around him, but Dorian stepped around Solas, dispelling it.

“Solas, you can’t. If you go, then…we can’t lose everyone. There’s been enough loss,” he said. He’d not seen the elf display too much emotion since he’d met him. But seeing him now was chilling. His eyes seemed to glow with fury. Dorian held his gaze and his ground until the other man’s eyes dimmed and an invisible weight fell onto his shoulders. Bull carefully released Solas but remained tensed, ready to spring again. The elf slumped and bowed his head in resignation. But then he inhaled sharply, turned on his heel and stalked away.

Bull let out a blustering breath.

“We should join the others. Yin will be waiting for the signal,” Dorian said in a tight voice. Bull nodded and lumbered off. He waited until the Qunari was gone before turning one more time, hoping the doors would bang open to reveal two battered but alive elves. 

Even when the mountain fell, Dorian kept looking back. Each time he did, he saw the lone elf doing the same, lingering at the back of the procession. But soon a storm swept in and they were forced to look forward. 

_I’ll explain why next we meet_. 

“I hope there will be a next time, Maori,” Dorian whispered as he opened the book to the first marked page once they had finally stopped to rest. Sitting pressed between them were two things that shook him to his core. 

He had never shut a book so fast in his life.

  


\---------------------------------------------

  


  


It was pain that jarred him awake. Without it, he imagined he would have frozen to death. Yin pulled himself to a sitting position against the wall of the strange tunnel—a mine shaft?—and conjured a small flame, teeth chattering and body shivering violently in presence of its little heat. The movement pulled an involuntary shout from him as the worst of the pain ignited in his side. Pulling aside the remnants of his tattered leather armour revealed darkly bruised ribs. Something in his leg felt off, too, but he was too afraid to look. 

He glanced around the tunnel, trying to assess his situation when his eye caught onto something glinting in light of his flame. 

“Potions?” he muttered, dragging himself on one arm. They were wrapped in cotton, but they weren’t yet frozen. That meant they hadn’t been there for very long. The situation couldn’t get stranger than it already was. Healing potions, too nonetheless. He downed the first one, sighing in relief as the pain subsided a little in his chest. He tied the second to his waist. It was time to get moving. He wouldn’t be able to maintain a flame for long, or else he’d tire out and likely die faster. It came as no surprise that he had lost his staff, but the sword he’d grabbed before releasing the final shot lay nearby. It was no walking stick, but it was better than nothing. Gods knew he’d need it with the way his leg was paining him. 

A faint whistle was blowing through the old tunnels, giving him something to follow. The ice caking the walls made the place eerily silent, muffling every sound he made. His ears felt stuffed with cotton.

Yin rounded a curve in the tunnel and saw swirling snow through an opening straight ahead. 

“There!” he wheezed, laughing with relief and quickly regretting it. As if things couldn’t get any worse, the Mark awakened and sent electrified flames up the nerves in his arm and taking the strength from his legs. He collapsed with a gasp, the air wavering in the centre of the cavern he’d entered. He recognised the Veil reacting to the Mark through the pain. The air exploded before he knew what was happening and several wisps accompanied by two despair demons materialised around him. The pain in his arm intensified, building up pressure as if wanting to be released. He did the only thing that made sense and pushed his will through his hand as he would with magic—the Mark sputtered and suddenly a rift shouted into existence, obliterating the demons around him.

Cold sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, but a hysterical laugh escaped from his throat as he pushed to his feet with the sword. He moved on, a remark dying in his mouth since no one was there to hear but himself. Before moving on, he cut a strip of cloth from his coat and wrapped it tightly around the terrible wound in his leg, hoping he wouldn’t lose it to frostbite.

He barely hesitated to observe the blizzard outside. If he spent too much time thinking about it he knew he’d stop moving. So he pushed forward, leaning heavily against the sword and trying not to think too much about the wound and the pain he felt.

Drifts of snow stretched as far as he could see—which wasn’t much. And he was glad of it because it made finding his first lead to catching up with the others easier. A burning wagon and trails of debris—some belongings that looked to have been abandoned.

Yin trudged on, thinking about his friends. His sister who had wrote him back. Against his—and likely their Keeper’s—judgement, Dhrui had reportedly set out to come see him, but now he had no idea where that would be. Then there was Dorian who had against all odds grown on him. Perhaps there was something to look forward to there. There was Solas, a friend of a calibre he had not known since childhood, a man so flawed and wise at the same time who had risked his freedom to help him—and the world. Maordrid, who had done much the same for him and asked for nothing in return. Varric, the friend he could cut loose with and lower all walls. And then there were the others that he swore to himself that he would get to know, if he survived.

He slipped while climbing an especially precarious incline, losing his footing and tumbling to the bottom. His scream was swallowed by the howling storm. Breaths coming deep and rapid, he brought shaking hands to his leg and saw the white of his kneecap poking through his pant leg. Near hyperventilating, Yin tore more of his coat apart and wrapped it, downing the second bottle afterwards. In rage, he threw the bottle, and as he did his eyes landed on an easier route up. And above that were cinders from a fire. He scrambled to his feet, using the sword against the solid stone of the incline to balance.

He thought back to the cursed creature that had invaded Haven. Corypheus, he had called himself. His words had been so formal and oddly poetic as he declared war upon him. It was so much to dissect, but he figured there had to be some truth to his words. Entering the Throne of the Maker? That he couldn’t make sense of. Then there was that black orb with the fingerprint on its surface. Had he imagined a huge bird swooping down to steal it from his grasp? Some stray magpie looking to add a treasure to its nest? The thought made him laugh as he crested the hill into a forest. It hadn’t been a magpie, since the thing had to have been the size of an eagle, perhaps slightly larger. Stupid Corypheus hadn’t accounted for greedy birds in the area, had he? Delirious, Yin hunched over the pommel of the sword, wheezing with laughter.

He dragged on through the snow until he realised the pain in part of his leg had gone considerably numb. Unwrapping his leg hastily revealed a bad sign. The tissues around the wound were… _not good_. 

“No. No, no,” he whispered to himself, grabbing the sword with both hands. Biting his lip, he dug the tip into the wound and began carefully removing clotted blood, praying that his frozen hands wouldn’t slip. When it began to bleed again, he wrapped it back up again and drew a small glyph of warmth on his leg. He would tire in time, and though his hope of salvation was beginning to crack like ice, it had not yet shattered.

Wolves howled the way he had just come, making his heart sink. The servants of Fen’harel, come to finish him off? Yin struggled to his feet once again, wondering how many more times he could do it before his body gave out. He kept moving up—away from the wolves.

“Why am I doing this?” Yin said aloud. “I’m done with the Breach—I did what they wanted. Why am I following their path? I’m sick of dancing to the Chantry’s tune.”

“If you were, wouldn’t you have left the day they asked you to join the Inquisition?” he said in an Orlesian accent. Raj had always like Orlais and their dumb accents. He’d be so jealous that he had visited first. “You stayed because you _like_ being at the centre of the world’s politics. The Dalish are the opposite.”

“You’d be right if the Keeper hadn’t sent me to begin with,” he said. 

“Hon-hon! But _only_ on behalf of the Dalish. She only cares how it will impact _us_ ,” the Orlesian said. Yin swallowed, but his spit was viscous. _Creators,_ he was thirsty. 

“Whose side are you on?” Yin rested briefly on a frozen tree, waiting for the other voice’s response before realising his madness. “I stay because I’ve seen the corruption and the festering wound it has exacted upon the world. Mages, elves, humans, and dwarves. It can change.”

The wolves howled again, this time sounding closer. Yin hurried, slogging through the snow. It wasn’t so bad through the trees, but—was that a light ahead? Too long. Too far. 

He tripped and fell before the blackened spot on the ground. His muscles trembled, completely exhausted. With an outstretched hand, he placed it into the heart of the fire’s remains. Cold. No, wait, there was pain. He turned his palm to face him and saw a small red coal lodged between his fingers.

“They were just here,” he whispered. Yin reached both arms above his head and _draaagged_ his body. In small increments, he edged up, between boulders. “There’s light. Sound. Voices.” His leg caught on a jagged stone, tearing away his crude bandage and digging into the flesh. His scream ricocheted off the crags of the mountains. White spots obscured his vision. 

“I tried, dammit, I tried,” he whispered, tears escaping and crystallising before they could drop.

“I heard it over here!” It sounded like his own voice. Yin’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled to stay awake. “It’s him!” 

“That isn’t me…” he said. With the last of his strength, he craned his neck backward and saw Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian, Bull, and even Solas all walking upside down. His brain felt like the jelly-blood in his leg. 

“Yin! Thank the Maker!” Cassandra cried as they surrounded him. They looked ready for a fight, surrounding him protectively.

“Sorry, Boss,” Bull rumbled as he knelt and easily lifted him into his arms.

“Nvvvmmm,” was what came out of his mouth. Looking behind, he saw Dorian and Solas lingering behind looking back down the mountainside as if searching for something. It was the last thing he saw before exhaustion took him.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to be 4,212 words, but I cut it down to ~2k instead. Not sure if that's something people like...? :/


	27. Sky, Snow, & Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rrrrrrgh, I have to go back and edit like 5 times each time I post because the italics get lost every. damn. time.

Yin sat on a curve of driftwood amongst drifts of sand as fine as flour, relishing the briny breeze that ebbed and flowed with the ocean waves. 

He watched phantoms of people in the waking realm appear before his eyes, checking on his sleeping body. They came and went, some bickering, others taking time to talk gently to him about what was going on or about their own troubles. But mostly they were well-wishes. Someone had healed all of his aches and pains, except for his leg that bothered him even in the Fade. Even so, he lingered, clinging to the spell of tranquillity before he would inevitably have to leave.

“Reluctant, relishing, but wanting to return. Why don’t you?” a dreamy voice asked. Yin looked over his shoulder to see the strange boy that had appeared before Haven’s downfall. 

“Cole,” he said with a smile, patting the driftwood. The young man walked over tentatively and crouched beside him. “Isn’t the beach nice?”

“It reminds you of Antiva, warm and whispering,” he said. “What is…chocolate?” Yin laughed.

“Better than dreams,” he said. Cole grabbed a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. 

“They’re worried for you. They’ve helped though they hurt, wondering when you’ll wake,” Cole said. Yin sighed, pushing his feet into the sand.

“I suppose I should go back then?” he said, gazing wistfully out at the sea. 

“Yes. They have many questions.” Then he was gone. Yin closed his eyes and woke up. The cold stung his face and exposed skin, but he was glad to see that his leg was bandaged, reeking of healing salve. They had stripped him to his breeches and white tunic, which explained why he was so cold. Yin sat up slowly, wincing when his sore muscles protested. Outside the healing tent the inner council was arguing amongst themselves about what to do. It wasn’t a good sign. 

“Shh, you should be resting,” Mother Giselle said, surprising him. He hadn’t seen her keeping vigil at his side.

“They’ve been arguing since they brought me back down here,” he said. “It’s been hard to sleep.”

“They have that luxury, thanks to you. The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame,” she said sagely. “Infighting may threaten as much as this…Corypheus.” Yin swung his legs over the side of the cot.

“Speaking of which, how do we know we’re safe here? Do we know where he is?” 

“We are not sure where we are. Which may be why, despite the numbers he still commands, there is no sign of him.” Yin rose slowly to his feet, grabbing a rough-spun cloth hanging off a post that looked light enough to wear. “It is that, or you are believed dead. Without Haven, we are thought helpless. Or he girds for another attack. I cannot claim to know the mind of that creature, only his effect on us.” Yin faced her as he swung the wrap around his shoulders. 

“I’m going out there. Otherwise they’re going to argue until they turn into ice statues.” 

“Another heated voice won’t help. Even yours. Perhaps especially yours. Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors witnessed. We saw our defender stand…and fall. And now, we have seen him return.” Yin gave pause as a sickening feeling formed in his stomach. They were going to turn this into more of a religious thing. “The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem ordained.” Yin shook his head, and Giselle, the sly mother, smiled. “That is hard to accept, no? What we have been called to endure? What we, perhaps, must come to believe?” Yin held up a hand to keep her from going any further.

“I escaped the avalanche. Barely, perhaps, but I didn’t die. I literally saw a hole and jumped in it before it hit.” But the woman’s face didn’t change from that expression of what he had begun to call the _Andrastian Glaze_. Thinking everything was planned. _The Maker placed that hole in the ground for you!_

“Of course, and the dead cannot return from across the Veil. But the people know what they saw—” Yin opened his mouth again to argue, but she ploughed on, “—or, perhaps, what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and how it is remembered.” _There it is. The holy cherry on top of it all. You’re not in control of your fate, silly elf! Oh, and did we mention we don’t care that you have different gods?_ “Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?” His patience had been as worn away as the skin of his knee.

“I don’t see how what I believe matters. I’m not Andrastian—I’m Dalish. But even with our religious differences none of that will protect us from the real, physical threat that is Corypheus. Passive hoping will not defeat him or save the world.” He bade her farewell and snatching a wooden bo staff nearby, limped away from the recovery tents. The scene he faced outside was…dismal. Cullen, Leliana, Josie, and Cassandra had ceased their arguing, but now all the passion of hope and fight seemed to have fled them. 

And that’s when the Mother began to sing. Yin had every intention of escaping before he got entangled in midnight mass of the Andrastians, but saw it was too late as one by one, people began to join in on the song. Including the inner council. They seemed to be singing at him.

Yin slowly backed away as some of the people began kneeling to him—everything that he had come to fear. 

“No, get up. Stop it,” he said, trying to pull a man to his feet. But they just. Kept. Singing. And gathering, like he was some sort of messiah. “Please!” It fell on deaf, pious ears. He turned to leave, but Giselle was there. 

“An army needs more than an enemy. It needs a cause,” she said. He sneered and threaded his way between some tents. It was a double edged sword—the people needed hope, that much was true, but nothing in his life had prepared him for that. He didn’t know how to react--what to do. Yin stopped in the darkness between two tents, covering his face with his hand as he was overwhelmed. Everything was just…hitting him. He didn’t turn when a hand closed on his shoulder. 

“I saw a nice little rock not far from here,” a most welcome voice said, “and I happened upon an unfortunate fallen flask during the fight. Say that ten times fast.” Yin gave a watery smile, looking at the old leather-wrapped flask in Dorian’s hand. As he accepted it back, Dorian clasped his hand tightly over Yin’s before jerking his head. “Follow me.” The mage went slowly for Yin, as he was still struggling to walk without too much pain. And really, it wasn’t far. A boulder jutted out of the snow, overlooking a bowl in the mountains. The two of them sat in silence on the rock, Yin groaning as he adjusted his leg. Then he shared drink with his friend, staring across the untouched mountains beyond.

“Is this something I’m going to have to live with? A title I don’t want?” Yin asked. 

“Would you feel the same if you were Herald of an Elven god?” Dorian asked, which was…a good question.

“Yes. And no.” He dug the butt of the staff into the snow, thinking. “I don’t want to be anyone’s pawn. But it’s also true that being the chosen of one of my gods wouldn’t be so bad. It would mean something for my people. It probably does to some Dalish out there.”

“But you must think—that thing in your hand is a symbol of literal power. It has exposed you to the machinations of others and they will seek to use you,” Dorian said, taking a sip off the flask with a hiss. “You are a changed man, Yin. Whatever you once were, you will likely never go back. Though, I am quite sure that in your position you can choose do to whatever you damn well please.” The edge was slowly eroding with the effects of the drink. “I, for one, look forward to seeing how you will shape the world. So far, well…I don’t think I have to say it. I’ve followed you this far and I’ll follow you until the end, as long as you’ll have me.” His stomach twisted into knots with butterflies caught in between.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dorian,” he said, looking at his hands.

“Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be?” The Altus went silent, which was unusual after such a comment. 

“Something wrong?” he asked. Dorian cleared his throat.

“Everyone is here,” he started slowly, and then raised his eyes to Yin’s, “except for Maordrid.” He went numb all over.

“What do you mean…she escaped with you! She did!” He clutched at Dorian’s cloak, knuckles going white. 

“She went back. For you. Solas would have too if he had turned around. I’ve never seen him lose his cool. Haven’t seen much of him since.” Dorian grimaced. “But even when he’s appeared I don’t know what to say to him.” Yin slammed a fist against the rock, feeling the skin at his knuckles split. Dorian started, staring down at his hand in horror.

“And no one is out there looking? They wait for their fucking Herald—search for him. And once he appears, oh! That’s it, who cares about other survivors? If my damn leg wasn’t…gah. I’d be out there right now looking myself. She can’t be dead.” He looked away angrily to hide his watering eyes from Dorian. 

“The Qunar—Iron Bull and I have taken turns searching while sitting by your side. I’ll bet Solas has been too. My point is, you slept for two days while we’ve searched, Yin. There’ve been no signs of her.” 

“And what about in the Fade? Gods, if she’s not dead, she might be soon,” Yin cursed. “As if this couldn’t get any worse.” 

“Well, it seems someone else wants your attention now,” Dorian interjected, eyes locked on someone. Yin followed his gaze to see Solas himself approaching from the camp. 

“Yin,” the elf said when he was closer, “a word?” Dorian touched his shoulder once more before leaving their company. Once he was gone, Solas considered him. “Can you walk?” Yin nodded with a shrug and pushed himself to his feet with his staff. He ignored the ache in his hand and focused on following Solas who led him over to a solitary iron flambeau stuck in the ground that he promptly lit with veilfire. 

“The humans have not raised on of our people so high for ages beyond counting,” he said, staring into the blue flame. _Ah, he must have seen the singing,_ Yin thought. “Her faith is hard-won, _lethallan_ , worthy of pride…save one detail.” Solas tucked his hands behind his back and looked at him. “The threat Corypheus wields? The orb he carried? It is ours.” A hundred questions all piled up on the tip of Yin’s tongue, but something made him hold back. “Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. We must find out how he survived…and we must prepare for their reaction, when they learn the orb is of our people.” 

“How do you know about this? What is it?” Yin finally asked. Solas gave him a brief smile but his face settled back into cool composure. 

“Such things were foci, said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remain are referenced in ruins, and faint visions of memory in the fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith.” 

“I believe you,” Yin said, feeling bitter, “But even if we defeat Corypheus, they’ll find a way to blame elves sooner or later. It’s their favourite thing to do besides blaming mages.” 

“I suspect you are correct. It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow.” Yin gestured out to the camp.

“Do you see this? We’ve been cast out. Where are we supposed to go, Solas?” he asked, becoming frustrated. “Fenedhis, man, I just found out we lost Maordrid and I don’t even have time to mourn or think about her. I can’t give in to grief because now all these people are depending on us. On me, apparently.” Solas was silent, hands tightening behind his back as he looked at the snow between his feet. “I need to get back to the others and formulate a plan. But I swear to you, we will get that orb and take Corypheus’ power from him.” Yin began to walk away, but Solas called out his name.

“There is a place we can go. Scout to the north and you will find a place where the Inquisition can rebuild and grow,” he said, “And perhaps…there, when we have time to breathe, we may search for her. Or if she is still alive she will find her way to us.” 

“Does this place have a name?” Yin asked. 

“Skyhold,” Solas said, “It is called Skyhold.”

\------------------------------------------

Over the next cold and trying days travelling across the Frostbacks, Yin slipped in and out of depression. He managed to maintain a mask for the people who needed it, including Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana whenever he spoke to them but when he was walking or by himself his mind drove him into darkness. According to Josephine, two lives had been lost and the evacuation had been largely successful. Chancellor Roderick and Maordrid. But he denied it. Every night he ventured into the Fade and sat there trying to figure out how he could go about searching for signs or clues that she might be alive. But he was not Somniari and all he encountered were memories of Maordrid, and sometimes spirits that pretended to be her. They were convincing, but there was always one thing that gave away their charade. He had realised some time ago that he had unwisely begun to harbour feelings for her. These spirits always caught onto it and blew their cover when they attempted to act how he had imagined her to. How he wanted her to.

But come the waking world, he struggled with other feelings of attraction toward the mage he had become fast friends with. Dorian was sarcastic, arrogant, and deeply proud of his intelligence—but he was also a good friend away from the public eye. Every day, at least once, he would make a point to check on his health, both mental and physical. Yin was a social person at heart and being alone took a toll on his wellbeing. Dorian became the rock to which he held onto, when before Solas had been his confidante. But Solas was distant these days, just as Yin was. Or maybe it was just him, he couldn’t tell. Solas always spoke to him when approached but their conversations lacked something that they had previously had. He came to the conclusion that it was just his overactive mind.

He was stretching his legs after receiving more healing one day and came around a couple of horses to see Dorian sitting on the edge of a wagon reading a book. He felt like he had seen its binding before, but he discarded the thought when Dorian began speaking.

“This is what we get for trying to restore order from chaos,” he said, not looking up, “Should be enough for anyone to handle, yes? Oh, but out of nowhere, and archdemon appears and kicks you in the head! ‘What? You thought this would be easy?’ ‘Nooo, I was just hoping you wouldn’t crush our village like an anthill!’ ‘Sorry about that! Archdemons like to crush, you know. Can’t be helped.” Dorian looked him straight in the eyes with a smirk, snapping the book shut.

“When you talk like that it’s my favourite thing,” Yin said, keeping pace with the wagon. 

“You’re not the first one to say that. My wit and charm are in no small shortage,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. 

“And I hope it never runs out,” Yin said. Dorian chuckled. 

“You know, I was thinking,” he said, pulling a page of notes from his pocket. “I always assumed the ‘Elder One’ behind the Venatori was a magister, but this…is something else completely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry’s tales of magisters starting the Blight are just that: tales. But here we are. One of those very magisters—a darkspawn.” 

“Curious. Then who do they say started the Blight?” Yin asked. Dorian rolled his eyes.

“You know how it is. _Not us._ They say darkspawn were always there; magisters and the Blight aren’t even related. Is that a surprise? No one wants to admit they shit the bed. But if Corpheus is one of the magisters who entered the Black City and he’s darkspawn…what other explanation is there?” Yin focused on pushing the snow out of his path while he considered it. 

“Corypheus said a lot of rather far-fetched things. He could be lying, despite all,” he said. 

“True,” Dorian said, looking down at the book in his hands. “He might be a convincing liar. Or delusional. Or insane. But how many delusional maniacs are going to have that knowledge? He broke open the Fade. I always took what I learned with a grain of salt. So much has been lost to time. I would not write off everything he said to be rubbish.” Dorian sighed. “But no, it was us all along. We destroyed the world.” 

“You didn’t do anything. Those men did—a thousand years ago, Dorian.”

“True, except that one of them is up and walking around right now. And I hate that I can say with confidence that if any of my countrymen catch ear of this, there are some that would happily follow him down that path again. No one will thank me, whatever happens. No one will thank you, either. You know that, yes?” Yin cast his gaze to the blue-bird sky, blinking at its brightness. 

“That’s not why I’m doing this,” he said, and he meant it. His friend hummed thoughtfully.

“I knew there was something clever about you,” he said, and left it at that. After a minute or two, the Tevinter scooted over and patted the space beside him. For the next few hours, they spoke less of Corypheus and more about Dorian’s homeland, Yin’s clan, and then finally at length about Dalish beliefs of which Dorian knew very little. It was almost enough to take his mind off of the worst things.

\-----------------------------------------------—

Yin and Solas scouted ahead of the procession many days later, searching for obscure landmarks that would tell them how far they were from Skyhold. Yin shivered despite his little warming runes on his skin. With what little had been salvaged in the escape, no one had winter clothes to spare. The weak, ill, and injured came first and foremost. Solas had even wrapped his feet up completely at this point. 

During a pause to catch their breath in the high altitude, Yin looked closely at Solas who was busy gauging direction and surroundings. 

“Any sign of Maordrid in the Fade?” Yin asked, noticing circles beneath the man’s eyes. 

“If I had sensed anything, you would be the first to know of it,” Solas said, finding what he was looking for and jumping off the rock they’d climbed. Yin followed in apprehensive silence, long enough to clamber over some more rocks and through knee-high snow.

“I keep having dreams about her,” he said as Solas turned to help him up yet another boulder. “She’s always in trouble and it’s always after she tries to save me. Goes to attack Corypheus—dragon chases her and I can’t keep up. I get surrounded by red templars—she does that vaulting thing she’s good at and draws them away from me. And then…” Yin paused. 

“And what?” Solas asked, though it sounded more like he was humouring him than listening. They stood now just before two massive rocks that jutted from the landscape, forming a passage. They stood across from each other on their own two rocks.

“The only time she didn’t exactly…well, die, was when Corypheus tried to take the Mark from me in one dream. She cuts his hand off, takes the orb, and kills him with it. Then she turns. Like the orb corrupted her, and she looks like she did in Redcliffe—the future you didn’t see. It’s terrible.” Solas was watching him inscrutably. 

“Did she do anything with the orb?” he asked as he walked to the edge of his rock which was between the two large stones and peered over the other side.

“No. She said ' _I’m going to help them'_ and the dream ended,” Yin said.

“Even in nightmares she tries to help others,” Solas said, beckoning him over. Yin joined him and gaped in awe at the sight beholden to them. “Welcome to Tarasyl’an Te’las.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-;
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> Hello friends! If you have any constructive criticism about my writing, I'd really like to hear it so I can improve. I don't have time to read books right now, which is normally how I work on my improvement...so...yeah, feel free to comment or something. Like, do I use too many commas, do I inconsistently capitalise Altus, etc.  
> 5/26/2019 I made a tumblr! https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/


	28. Inquisitor

  


Some hours later, Yin was finishing storing his belongings in an old trunk. The room he’d taken was drafty and located along the battlements right next to the front gates. Skyhold was massive up close and would easily fit their numbers. He grabbed his plain staff on his way out of the room, determined to do some exploring before Josephine or someone else called a meeting.

He headed toward what appeared to be stables to the right of the gates, seeing Master Denet and Blackwall guiding various horses and animals into stalls with feed and water. Sera was nearby as well, chasing a few children around with glee. Yin passed through a door up a set of stairs, curious. Inside, the air was much warmer. In fact, he found that Skyhold seemed to have its own climate. Things technically shouldn’t have been able to grow in the cold, but he had seen trees and lush grass growing as if they were in the fertile lands in the north. The keep almost seemed alive. He couldn’t wait to start a garden there.

Yin stood inside of what looked to have once been the kitchen. There wasn’t much to see, so he continued on. There was tons of space inside—including a secret library alcove that he was excited to explore. He took a moment to sit down in the lonely chair before the desk, wondering about those who had been there before them. He moved on, eager to see the rest but making note to return soon.

Stairs and old doors led to more rooms and little secrets. The grand hall was marvellous with windows that gave view of massive snow-capped mountains just beyond. The undercroft, though open to the air with a raging waterfall outside, felt like a forge. The Veil felt strange there. Yin ended up in a tower just across the way from the undercroft after that. It appeared to have once functioned as personal quarters for someone important. A rotting bed frame squatted in the centre of the chambers up against a wall. There was a very fine hearth, large windows that gave almost a full view of the basin around them, and even a personal bath just behind the wall of the bed.

Yin passed out onto the balcony, pleased with Solas’ suggestion. The man was full of surprises. As he looked down on the tiered courtyards he spotted Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine gathered together in a meeting. Leliana was holding some kind of ridiculous ornamental sword as they spoke. If he saw anyone wielding that on a battlefield they could count on him stopping a fight just to shame and laugh at them. Cullen was the one who spotted him way above, gesturing to the others who raised their gazes. Cassandra seemed to beckon him and even from there he could see a smile on her face. He was reluctant to leave the isolated quarters, but did so to appease the needy council.

At the bottom of the stairs, Cassandra waited for him.

“Have you seen this place?” he exclaimed to her. “We owe it big to Solas.” 

“You will have to give me the grand tour later. We’ve been talking,” she said, ever the serious one. 

“You sure you don’t want to go see the view up there? It’s worth it,” he said, nudging her shoulder. The warrior blushed but batted him away.

“The others wish me to talk to you about something first,” she said as they began to walk toward the entry.

“What is it?” he asked. 

“We’ve the walls and means to support a lot of people here, Yin. And the numbers will only grow. As of now, we have everything we need to put up a fight here, but the threat is far beyond the war we anticipated,” she said. _Straight to business, never a moment to breathe,_ he thought, wishing he hadn’t come down.

“Corypheus brought a lot to the table. My mind’s been reeling over that dragon,” he said and she nodded. 

“But now we know what allowed you to stand against him; what drew him to you,” she said, her eyes drifting to the anchor.

“Next time I won’t be so lucky. He said the Mark is permanent and if he hadn’t been distracted by my antics, he would have killed me,” Yin said, tossing his glowing hand. 

“The anchor has power, but it’s not why you’re still standing here,” she said. 

“Did you ignore everything I just said?” he muttered under his breath as she continued walking. 

“Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what _you_ did, Herald. And we know it. All of us.” They emerged at the top of the steps and saw Leliana still there on the landing holding the big ass sword. “The Inquisition requires a leader: the one who has already been leading it.” Yin stopped on the stairs midway. 

“You mean all of us, don’t you?” he asked, hoping desperately that it wasn’t what he thought this to be. Did he fall asleep in the little study? Perhaps she was just…asking for his opinion on a good leader? 

“No. It’s you, Yin,” she said, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it. He actually gaped out of shock. 

“You’re offering this to an elf? And not just any elf, but a Dalish mage? Gods, Cass, I can’t accept this!” He was beginning to realise that there might be irony attached to the sword in the Spymaster’s hands.

“I would be terrified handing this power to anyone, but I believe it is the only way,” Cassandra continued, finally presenting the sword, “They’ll follow you. To them, being an elven mage shows how far you’ve risen, how it must have been by Andraste’s hand. What it means to you, how you lead us: that is for you alone to determine.” Yin felt like someone was holding a hot iron poker to his back as he reached out and grabbed the sword that was as unbalanced as he’d imagined. The people in all the courtyards were now gathering, likely awaiting some inspirational words from him.

“I’ll lead us against Corypheus, and I will be an ambassador for elves and mages, standing for what is right. I’ll defeat Corypheus standing with them, not over them. The Inquisition is for all,” he finally said, glad words had not completely escaped him. Cassandra gave him an encouraging, brilliant smile.

“Wherever you lead us,” she said, coming to stand beside him, then shouted down to Josephine, “Have our people been told?”

“They have. And soon, the world!” she called up to them. Cassandra nodded, satisfied.

“Commander, will they follow?” she shouted. Cullen bared his sword, walking down the length of the crowd with it raised. 

“Inquisition! Will you follow?” The crowd roared their approval, “Will we triumph? Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!” Yin didn’t think he could lift the sword without losing his mind—or accidentally tossing it into the crowd—so he planted it in the stone and stood up straight, letting the cries of the faithful wash over him. He was glad when Leliana finally coaxed him away from the edge and took the sword from him. He was too glad to be free of it. 

The others joined them above in the grand hall where they took stock of their new home. 

“So this is where it begins,” Cullen said behind him. 

“It began in the courtyard,” Leliana said, “This is where we turn that promise into action.”

“But what do we do? We know nothing about this Corypheus except that he wanted the Inquisitor’s Mark,” Josephine interjected. 

“The dragon,” Yin said, slowly turning, his gaze on the scar in his hand. The others were looking at it too. “It looked like an archdemon, but is it? What would it mean?” 

“It would mean the beginning of another Blight,” Leliana said grimly. 

“We have seen no darkspawn other than Corypheus himself. There are no reports of sightings elsewhere either,” Josephine said. “Perhaps it isn’t an archdemon at all, but something different instead?” 

“Whatever it is, it’s dangerous,” Cullen told him. “Commanding such a creature gives him an advantage we can’t ignore.” 

“That and he said he intends to enter the Black City to become a god. I’d say he isn’t far from achieving that goal,” Yin said.

“He is willing to tear this world apart to reach the next—it won’t matter if he’s wrong,” Leliana said. 

“What if he’s not wrong?” Cullen said, looking at her, “He could find another way into the Fade.”

“Then he gains the power he seeks or unleashes catastrophe on us all,” she said. 

“Someone out there must know something about Corypheus,” Yin said, hoping one of them had contacts or strings they could pull. He didn’t know where to start with this Inquisitor business. 

“Unless they saw him on the field, most will not believe he even exists,” Cullen said, bringing a point that Yin had not even considered. It stirred an anger in him, knowing some pompous Orlesians would be thinking that once rumours spread far enough.

“We do have one advantage. We know what Corypheus intends to do next. In that strange future you experienced, Empress Celene had been assassinated,” Leliana said.

“Imagine the chaos her death would cause,” Josephine said, with an impending sense of dread, “With his army…”

“—An army he’ll bolster with a massive force of demons. Or so the future tells us.” The others fell silent briefly, likely imagining what could happen should they fail. Yin didn’t have to—he had already seen it.

“He could conquer the entire south of Thedas, god or no god,” Josephine finished.

“I know someone who could help with that.” Yin had seen the dwarf approaching, silent on his feet. There was a very uncomfortable set to Varric’s face. “Everyone acting all inspirational jogged my memory, so I sent a message to an old friend. She’s crossed paths with Corypheus before and may know more about what he’s doing. She can help.” Yin grinned devilishly. 

“Well stop holding out on me and introduce us!” Yin said, earning an uneasy chuckle from his friend. It was so unlike him. Then again, Varric had told him more or less why he was reluctant to get Hawke involved. 

“Parading around might cause a fuss when she gets here. We’ll meet privately. Trust me, it’s complicated.” Varric gave him a knowing look and then turned to leave. Josephine cleared her throat daintily.

“Well then, we stand ready to move on both of these concerns,” she said, marking something down on her note-board.

“On your order, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, causing Yin to physically wince.

“I know one thing,” Leliana said, smirking at his reaction. “If Varric is bringing who I think he is, Cassandra is going to kill him.” 

“Well. He said she is on her way, so that gives us all time to get settled here,” Yin said eager to escape. 

“I can arrange for the main tower to be furnished for you, Inquisitor,” Josephine piped up. Yin went to protest, but she was already scribbling away. “What kind of decorations would you like? Oh, how about something Antivan? Or Dalish? Orlesian decor is quite resplendent as well.” 

“I don’t know!” he said, throwing his hands up, then apologising. “Sorry, I’m just…you know. Or maybe you don’t. I’d just like a bed and something to sit on, I suppose.” Josephine nodded, already in her own head. “Am I free to go?” Leliana winked at him and nodded. Yin felt like a child all over again, getting permission to go play in the forest. 

  


\----------------------------------------

  


Several days passed and each one Yin watched as more and more people arrived. He spent perhaps four hours total each day scanning those faces for signs of Maordrid. But eventually his friends caught onto his ways. He’d been sitting on a precarious ledge above the gates when Sera appeared, looking rather puzzled. He glimpsed Cole behind her and realised that the spirit must have manipulated her some. 

She convinced him to shoot arrows with her. His skills were rusty since leaving his clan, but he was at least able to hit the target. Sera ran circles around him, telling him how shite he was at archery, so much that he used a touch of magic to guide his arrows. She seemed suspicious of him after that, but her mood wasn’t dampened. In fact, she threatened him with pranks if she didn’t see him at the tavern later.

Thinking about his training with Solas and Maordrid brought him to finding a sword and practising what he knew about fighting. That drew the attentions of Blackwall and Cullen, surprisingly. The two men took turns giving Yin pointers for a long time in much more helpful ways than Sera’s teachings. He even had a chance to spar with each man who seemed reluctant to actually try until Yin ordered them to. After, he lost count how many times his arse kissed the mud. He was happy to see Cullen unwind for once, but he was eventually called away on duty. Yin and Blackwall instead walked to the stables where they played dice until nightfall. He wondered why he hadn’t brought the Warden on their more recent missions—the man was a quiet riot with a raunchy sense of humour. 

At the tavern later that night, just about everyone was present except for Solas, Vivienne, and his advisors. Yin lapsed in and out of the revelry. Each time he swept his gaze across the commons, he was always searching. Once or twice his eyes snagged on someone with black hair, thinking it was her.

It never was.

Yin had never been good at hiding his emotions, and Iron Bull caught on quickly. 

“You’re lookin’ for your elf, aren’t you?” he asked, sliding into a chair beside him. “I thought for sure you had eyes for that fancy little Vint.” Yin blushed. “Alright, I didn’t expect that. Hots for ‘em both?” Bull tossed his head back and laughed. “Don’t worry Boss, I take at least one to bed every other night. Sometimes two or three!” Yin’s eyes fell on Dorian who was on the other side of the tavern conversing with Varric of all people. Bull nudged him. “Go get him, Yin. Then come back here and tell me all about it!” Yin took a draw from his flagon and rose from his seat, the spirits bolstering his confidence. He heard Bull’s booming laugh behind him and for a moment, he faltered, but Dorian was casting glances his way as he approached. There was no stopping it now. Varric’s gaze also broke away from ‘Sparkler’ when he realised his conversation partner wasn’t exactly paying attention anymore.

“—Pssht, I can’t believe you’re asking me to give odds on our beloved Inquisitor’s success, Sparkler!” Varric said with a grin, side-eyeing Yin. 

“Well, what would it look like? Three to one?” Dorian said without missing a beat, breaking eye contact with Yin. 

“In his favour?” Varric laughed, glancing at him.

“After Corypheus pulled an archdemon out of his arse, are you joking?” Yin stared at him, aghast.

“You would actually bet against me?”

“Now, now, if I weren’t here, it’d be six to one at least. I’m a very valuable asset,” Dorian said, ignoring him. Yin scoffed.

“Whatever. I’ll take those odds,” he said. “Thousand crown?” 

“This is why I adore him so!” Dorian said. Varric shook his head.

“We’ll talk later,” Varric said, then melded in with the crowd of the tavern. 

“Adore is a pretty strong word,” Yin said as Dorian faced him. 

“Did I say that? It must be the drink talking,” the mage said, glaring into his cup. Yin’s nerves were beginning to catch up, even through his own drink-induced brain fog. 

“I’d offer you a drink but you already have one,” he said. He thought maybe he was slurring his words already. Dorian probably thought he was an oaf anyway. Panic set into his chest and he began to back away slowly. 

“We could…go elsewhere, you know,” the mage suggested. Yin blinked sluggishly, but hastily gestured toward the door. Dorian downed the rest of his drink and took his leave. Yin paused at the door and looked back at Bull who gave him two thumbs up. He swallowed and followed him outside.

He was frustrated with himself, acting like an adolescent all over again. He was far past those days, in his thirties! He was losing his collective shit around Dorian. Yin Lavellan, who had had his fair share of men and women in his day. Perhaps it was due to his new title. If he were just himself, he could be himself. But now, Josie had told him the Inquisitor had an appearance to keep up. He wasn’t sure why he let that get to him.

“Congratulations on the whole…leading the Inquisition bit,” his friend said as they walked. Yin was still unsure how to feel about it. People had gotten worse with the bowing and scraping since his promotion. It made him feel lower than dirt, having come from humble beginnings himself.

“Thanks, I guess,” Yin mumbled as Dorian led them up some stairs along the battlements. Dorian laughed.

“You are uncertain? It’s a great thing, my friend. I knew it was only a matter of time before they acknowledged your deeds officially,” he said. 

“How do you feel about it? Am I different now, in your eyes?” Yin asked. 

“If I’m honest, you…hm. Perhaps you are unreachable, now,” he replied. It was the answer he didn’t want to hear. “Our friendship will likely raise concern and distasteful rumours amongst those with nothing better to do.” 

“Because you’re from Tevinter?” Yin spun around which put him in Dorian’s space. The man didn’t back away, instead he crossed his arms while his steely-grey eyes followed him. A small smile played on his lips. “That’s rubbish. We’ve people from all across the continent, so no matter who I choose to be friends with or take to bed or, shit, talk to even, is going to end up in some rumour! You won’t treat me any differently, will you?” 

“Only if you want me to.” Yin gripped him by the lapels, staring him square in the eyes.

“I want you to be _you_ ,” he said, and then released him slowly, apologising quietly. “I just don’t want to be isolated because of what they made me.” Yin went and leaned over the battlements, hoping an updraft would hit him in the face to clear his head. “I’m sorry for bringing you out here, _lethallan._ I suppose I’ve been drawn to you lately. Since Redcliffe, really. That’s been on my mind constantly—and now Haven. Maordrid as well. I want you to know how much I appreciate you.” He was taken by surprise when Dorian covered his left hand with one of his own.

“I value you as well,” he said. Yin saw the opening he needed. Dorian’s eyes kept twitching to his lips. But something kept him from acting. He dropped his gaze past their feet with a sigh, his breath coming out visible. 

“I’ve had too much to drink. I’ll see you later,” Yin finally said, though every muscle in his body screamed at him to go back. There was visible disappointment in the other man’s face, though he imagined Dorian didn’t think it was visible in the night. Thanks to his elven eyesight, he gauged his reaction quite easily. 

“Of course, Inquisitor. Rest well,” the Altus said. He squeezed his shoulder, lingering at the top step before descending, leaving Yin alone.

“Fen’harel eat me, I’m an idiot,” he muttered, striding back to the main keep. In the grand hall, debris had been cleared and long tables had since been set. Chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, laden with candles to light the way. He was surprised—and mildly annoyed—when he saw Mother Giselle standing before the dais looking up at the windows. He walked right past her, hoping she wouldn’t acknowledge him.

“My Lord Inquisitor,” she called out just as his hand landed on the door. Yin put on his best smile and turned to regard her.

“Mother Giselle. It’s late! What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“I…have news regarding one of your, hm, companions,” she said. Why was it that Chantry sisters and mothers acted shadier than most nobles he had met? “The Tevinter.” _What are the odds?_

“Do I detect a note of disdain, Mother?” he asked, none too friendly. The woman tucked her hands into her sleeves slowly.

“I admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable, Inquisitor,” she said, “But my feelings are of no importance. I have been in contact with his family. House Pavus out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?” Yin’s brow furrowed. 

“He has told me of them, but we have never met, if that is what you are suggesting,” he answered truthfully, wondering where the fuck this line of questioning was going. He was glad he wasn’t a belligerent drunk, at least. She chuckled amiably.

“I am suggesting nothing, I am only curious whether you knew of his, ah, situation. His family sent a letter describing the estrangement from their son and pleading for my aid. They want to arrange a meeting quietly, without telling him. They fear it is the only way he will come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I’d hoped—” Anger bubbled over, despite how hard he tried to hold it back.

“If you think I’m going to agree to  tricking Dorian, to deceive my friend—” Giselle shook her head, sighing.

“I was afraid you would say that. The family is going to send a retainer to meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern, to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion, he can always end matters there. I pray you change your mind, Inquisitor, perhaps their letter will persuade you. If there is any chance of success in this, it behooves us to act.” She removed the letter from within her sleeve and handed it to him. “Good evening, Inquisitor.” The woman bowed away, slinking into the shadows. He shivered, despite himself. On his way up to his quarters, he tried reading the letter but found the words kept rearranging themselves on the page. He set it on the desk nearby and threw himself onto his makeshift bed, promptly passing out.


	29. Approach, Attack, Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and not always in that order.

Rays of silvery sunlight pierced his eyelids, rousing him from the depths of a drunken slumber and into sweaty, sticky awareness. His beard felt coated in drool and beer from last night. He was afraid to touch it. 

He groaned as he sat up, running his tongue along his fuzzy teeth and feeling a layer of oil on his cheeks, nose, and brow. He couldn’t go downstairs like that. Yin struggled and stumbled out of his clothes, walking naked into the bathing chamber that he had yet to use. He’d been using the public bathing house when others weren’t around, as he’d felt strange in his tall and lonely tower. He didn’t want to be viewed as different from anyone else…but in that moment, he was not about to walk in all his glory and grime through the halls to the bathhouse. So he walked over to the round stone tub set in the floor and pulled on the chain hanging from the ceiling. A trap door opened in the wall and water flooded in. Yin inscribed a fire rune along the aqueduct and at the bottom of the tub. Then he stepped in and let the water slosh in around him, feeling like the swirling water was analogy to his life.

  


—————————————————

The Inquisitor shut the tower door with a soft click and made sure his hair was smoothed back. A lock of hair slipped loose as he looked down at the letter clutched in his hand, but he paid no mind. Dorian hadn’t told him everything about his family, but he had a hunch it wasn’t good.

When he emerged from the stairwell into the library for the first time since they’d arrived, he walked over to the railing to peer over into the rotunda. He’d heard that Solas had started painting some murals, but due to his recent appointment, had not had a chance to speak to him nor admire his friend’s work. He was rendered speechless at what the man had accomplished in a week. 

“Imagine my surprise when I learned that a man so nondescript and colourless was actually a master of artistic expression.” Dorian leaned on the banister beside him, looking down at the murals.

“Aw, c’mon, maybe his dress is a bit plain, but I think he’s quite attractive. He pulls off the bald well and that jaw? Woof,” he said. Dorian guffawed.

“You’ve questionable taste in looks, my friend,” he chided, pushing away from the rail. 

“Questionable? What if I say you’re at the top of my list?” Yin mused, turning to face him. That gave Dorian pause. 

“How cute, Lavellan has a list of people he finds attractive? Do you draw little smiling faces and butterflies next to those you like best?” Yin blushed furiously, but wouldn’t cave.

“You’d have butterflies with gold leafing in the wings,” he grinned. Dorian threw his hands up.

“Did you eat a whole wheel of cheese this morning?” Yin laughed and finally held the letter between his fingers.

“No, but I figured you would need a bit of a lift before reading this,” he said, handing it over. Dorian cast him a wary gaze before meandering back into his little reading alcove. 

“Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?” Yin thought the Antivan part funny, because it was so true, but…he wasn’t sure what to think about the letter.

“Not quite,” he paused, “It’s from your father.” Dorian’s stare went briefly unfocused before he breathed out.

“I see.” And then he read it. Yin watched as he became increasingly more agitated, pacing a groove into the stone and biting the tip of this thumb. Then, finally he shook the paper.

“ _I know my son?_ ” he said with disbelief. “What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble! This is so typical! I’m willing to bet this retainer—a henchman hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.” 

“With me standing there? I think not,” Yin said. He’d already made up his mind after reading the note. He would be there for Dorian, no questions asked. He had not realised that his friend had struggles of his own, as Dorian had always seemed…well, beyond worry or stress. He supposed he should have caught onto the drinking and deflection humour.  _Does that make me a bad friend?_ he wondered worriedly.

“He expects me to travel with Mother Giselle, although Maker knows why he thinks I would. Let’s go. Let’s meet this so-called family retainer. If it’s a trap, we escape and kill everyone! You’re good at that! If it’s not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his ‘wit’s end’.” Dorian spun on his heel, still muttering about the contents of the letter.

“Dorian, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and your family?” he asked and regretted it when the Altus stopped in his footsteps to give a very forced laugh.

“Interesting turn of phrase, my friend,” he said. “I suppose I shall, but it’s simple: they don’t care for my choices, nor I for theirs.” He knew Dorian was omitting something, but he supposed it would come out soon.

“Let’s go meet this retainer, then. Whenever you’re ready,” Yin said. 

“I’ll let you know soon,” Dorian said, and then turned away, thinking. Yin bowed out of habit and hurried off to find Josephine. The woman as of late was practically chained to her desk in the chamber just outside the war room. When Yin entered, she regarded him with a charming smile and a greeting in their shared tongue.

“I plan on accompanying Dorian to Redcliffe quite soon,” he announced. Her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Again?” 

“I know, I know. I’m quite sick of the place,” he said, “But it’s important.” She nodded and then sifted through the pile of papers on her desk until she found a folder that she flipped open.

“Ah, I suggest we call a council meeting then. Already matters are piling up for the Inquisition. Leads on Corypheus that we weren’t aware of not that long ago…but I’ll save that for the meeting.” Yin nodded and headed off to the war room as Josephine went to gather the others. He didn’t have to wait long for her to return, which had him wondering what magical powers she had that allowed her to work so efficiently. 

“You’re leaving?” Cullen asked. “I was just arranging for a team of men to return to the site of Haven to…well.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trailing off. Yin felt a stone drop into his stomach. He cleared his throat.  _Could she still be out there after all this time?_

“I’d love to be leading that search myself, but…Josephine said I’m needed elsewhere. The world isn’t waiting,” he said, though the words hurt to say. 

“I understand, Inquisitor,” Cullen said stiffly, but let the matter drop. Josephine stepped forward, spreading several papers across the table at the bottom of the map.

“This is a large undertaking, gentlemen. Leliana has already sent a barrage of Inquisition agents to the majority of these areas to better triage the situations at hand. It seems Corypheus has extended tendrils across the entire continent.” Josephine and Leliana began setting markers everywhere. The Emerald Graves, Emprise du Lion, the Exalted Plains, the Fallow Mire, a place in the western Orlais called the Forbidden Oasis, the Hissing Wastes—although Yin was wondering what in the name of unholy things the creature could want there of all places—the Storm Coast— _fuck that soggy pisshole,_ he thought—the Western Approach… 

“So pretty much every fucking place known to Thedas?” Yin said as he studied the map with a growing amount of stress.

“Pretty much,” Josie said, eyes widening as she took in their work. “But, if we play our cards carefully, Leliana and I have faith we can outsmart Corypheus.” 

“I have spent the last few days corresponding with my agents to hopefully make your path easier, Inquisitor,” Leliana said. “We have determine two places of considerable activity on Corypheus’ part. Emprise and and the Approach. We’ve reports that he is mining red lyrium in the former and has a high concentration of Venatori in the desert.”

“He seems interested in some temple in the Forbidden Oasis as well,” Cullen said. “And it seems no matter where you go, my soldiers have been reporting rifts everywhere.” Yin picked up a small worn journal sitting just above the marker where the Storm Coast sat.

“What’s this?” he asked, flipping it open.

“Oh, I forgot about that. One of the Chargers picked it up while they were waiting for you at the Storm Coast. I meant to put in the requisition for you, but there’s a group called the Blades of Hessarian that may prove to be…useful, murderous as they are,” Josephine said. 

“It says if I go into their hold wearing an amulet—”

“—you can challenge their leader and essentially gain them as allies,” Josephine finished for him. Yin shook his head and tossed it back on the table. 

“I’m thinking we’ll head toward the Western Approach and investigate there first. If we have time, we’ll push into the Oasis and loop back, drop into the Exalted Plains and head to Emprise…maybe the Graves, depending on how we’re holding up. I’ve always wanted to visit there,” Yin said, tracing the path with his finger. 

“You’re looking at several months of travel,” Josephine said, “I’ve heard rumours of peace talks being held at the Winter Palace—that may be when and where Corypheus plans to strike down Celene. Depending on where you are at in your travels by the time I confirm  _when_ it is happening, you may have to rendezvous to Halamshiral.” Yin stroked his beard, thinking.

“We can only try our best. Any word from Varric’s friend before we go traipsing across the world looking for clues?” Leliana giggled.

“Yes, I am aware that his  _friend_ arrived in the night and he is currently busy hiding her from Cassandra. I can’t imagine how difficult that must be. She isn’t known to be….subtle, exactly.” 

“Sounds like we’ll get on famously,” Yin said and the others shared a laugh. “I suppose I’ll go meet her now. The plan stands, though—we go west once I return from Redcliffe.” The others voiced their agreement and stayed to talk as Yin went to the room he had originally occupied in the first days along the wall where Leliana said Varric had stowed away the woman they all refused to name. 

When he approached the the door, he heard voices hushing each other back and forth. 

“I’m coming in Varric,” he announced, opening the door and stepping through. He was immediately assailed by someone hiding behind the door which caused him to go toppling toward the bed. He narrowly missed it and landed on the floor.

“Hawke!” Varric yelled, half laughing, half worried. “You damn maniac, you just tackled the Inquisitor!” Yin’s head had somehow ended up beneath the dusty bed. The sheet covering his face moved to the side, revealing the pale face of a blue-eyed she-devil. 

“The fuck? You didn’t tell me he had a beard?” Hawke reached down and stroked his beard, which was both unexpected and strangely nice. “Elves can grow beards?” 

“I told everyone I was part dwarf, but they won’t believe me,” he said. Hawke remained crouched over his chest. 

“Magic dwarf parent?”

“What the shit, Hawke, how do you know about that?” Varric asked from behind her.

“Shush!” she commanded, holding a finger up to him, then brought it around to offer Yin her hand. With surprising strength she lifted him to his feet. “Don’t you remember Sandal, Varric?” He laughed with his hand planted at his forehead.

“Your enchanter kid-dwarf? You think he sired Yin here?” Varric laughed even harder. Hawke rolled her eyes, looking at Yin.

“’Course not, you goof,” she said. “That would make Yin here like what, a toddler?”

“Who is Sandal?” Yin asked. Hawke’s eyes went wide as saucers and Varric groaned.

“Don’t get her started,” he begged, but Hawke took Yin by the shoulders and sat him down on the bed.

“I’ve got a theory—”

“Watch out, Charmer, her foil hat is on a bit too tight—”

“—that this dwarf I know is actually a mage or something. He spouted a prophecy or some nonsense at me once. It was freaky. Remember the way he killed that ogre in the Deep Roads, Varric?”

“I remember, Hawke.”

“Yeah, well, either that kid’s a mage or he’s got some kind of spirit guardian following him around.  _Thus_ I am convinced there are magic dwarves in Thedas. Maybe you and Sandal are related!” Yin gasped.

“A long lost brother?” Hawke nodded, grinning. He wasn’t sure whether to humour her or not, judging by Varric’s frantic gesturing behind her. “Well. Um. It’s good to meet you, Hawke.” The woman laughed and shook his head.

“Y’know I’m just fucking with you,” she said. Varric shook his head behind her and mouthed,  _She’s not_ . 

“You wanna take a walk somewhere? This room is stuffy.” Hawke glared at Varric.

“Yah, I do. This guy insisted I needed to hide. Sorry, Shortcakes, you can’t hide a face like this. Cassandra’s gonna find out,” she said, patting her friend on the shoulder as she swung the door open. 

“She’s all yours,” Varric muttered as Yin passed him. 

“So! It’s Yin, right? Y’know, I met an Antivan elf some years ago,” she cat-called, earning some looks as they walked toward the stairs along the wall, “And I gotta say, you’re easier on the eyes than he was, Inky. I love me a beard and some muscles.” She reached back and squeezed his bicep. 

“Finally, someone says it!” he said. Hawke laughed with her head tossed back, clutching her middle.

“Damn, I love me an ego in a man, too,” she said. “Anyway, my name’s something ridiculous, like an elven bard fucked a dragon and couldn’t agree on a name or some shit, so just call me Vyr.” As they came to a stop close to where he had been with Dorian the night before, Vyr lifted herself on top of the battlement and sat down, facing him. “Well then. Came all this way because Varric insisted I should. Don’t know how much I can help you with Corypheus, seeing as you dropped a bloody mountain on his head.” 

“And you stopped a horde of Qunari…killed a dragon— _rode_ a dragon that happened to be Asha’bellanar herself—am I missing anything?” Yin asked.

“Inadvertently helped blow up a Chantry,” she said. “You read Varric’s book though, didn’t you.”

“Used it as a guideline more or less to become Inquisitor,” he joked. 

“Ha! Can I take credit for your trebuchet-avalanche incident, then? Eh, but in all seriousness, what can I even tell you?” she asked. “We gotta at least pretend we’re getting some adult things done here.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,  _amica_ . You did what you could in an impossible situation with the few tools you were given,” he said. “First thing’s first—Varric said you fought Corypheus.” She nodded.

“Fought  and  killed him. The Grey Wardens were holding him and somehow he got into their heads. Think it had something to do with his connection to the darkspawn. Turned them against each other—and  _voilà,_ he’s free. Now, the Wardens have disappeared—dunno if you heard anything about that, but I’m willing to bet there’s some Tevinter magic fuckery happening there.” Yin joined her at the edge, looking beyond while she looked back at Skyhold.

“He’s got the Venatori, Red Templars, possible the Wardens…and maybe a demon army on the way?” he said, counting on his fingers.

“Yeah, see, a bunch of Qunari ain’t shit. You fixed a hole in the sky—seriously impressed by that—and now you’re facing a mistake I made with a few little additions. Good luck, Inkspot, I don’t envy you.” She sighed. “Sorry. I know I’m abrasive, Varric tells me all the time. But look, I might be able to help you. I’ve got a friend in the Wardens. He was investigating something unrelated for me. You’ve probably heard of him, and if you haven’t, shame on you. Name’s Alistair? Yeah, the guy that turned down a crown—again, not envious, but think of the endless cheese and wine. Anyway, last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks. Since then, nothing.”

“I’d say Corypheus counts as corruption,” Yin said. “But what about Alistair? You think he’s gone with the others too?” She shook her head, thumbing her lip.

“No. He told me he’d be hiding in a hole near Crestwood.” Yin cursed, fiddling with a thread on his sleeve. “What?”

“We have to go the opposite direction soon, we don’t have time to investigate so far out with the possibility that he might not be there,” he told her. She hummed pensively.

“I might be able to do something about that. Where are you headed?” she asked.

“The Western Approach.” She nodded.

“Maybe I can convince him to meet you somewhere closer.” 

“Hang on,” Yin said, “If you didn’t know about Corypheus, what were you doing with the Wardens?” Hawke’s gaze sharpened as she looked at him.

“The templars in Kirkwall were using a strange form of lyrium. It was red,” she said and he snapped the thread, leaving a bit to unravel. “I thought maybe they might know something about it. It’s like a game of tag: do you know something? No, but this guy might! Hey guy, this man says you know—oh, you don’t know anything but this other guy does but he wants you to go fetch something? Okay, done, but…gotta go over here—it’s ridiculous and I’m going mad over it. It was so much easier when my friends were around. At least you seem to have help. Hey, why are you pacing?” Yin faltered in his footsteps, glancing at the Champion.

“Corypheus had templars that were infused with that stuff. And before that there was this…incident in Redcliffe…” 

“So you know what I’m talking about it. Good,” she said. “But you seem to know about as much as I do. Well, hopefully Alistair will know more.”

“We need any information we can get right now,” he said. Vyr nodded and hopped down from the wall.

“Then I’ll be travelling to find our Warden,” she said, walking toward the other side of the wall. 

“Do you need a horse?” he asked. Hawke laughed.

“You’re as kind as they say, Inky. But no, I’m fine. I just can’t get over this view! Reminds me of my home in Kirkwall. Had a balcony that overlooked the city, you know.” She sighed and turned her face away from it. “Makes me sick thinking about it. Not saying that your castle makes me sick. I just…ugh. Too much responsibility.”

“I can see how that would wear on you,” Yin said and she laughed, though he couldn’t see why.

“It doesn’t bother you? All these people looking to you to save them?” she asked. “How do you deal?” 

“Before Haven fell, I’d just step outside the walls and find something that wants to kill me. Now it seems like half of Thedas shares that goal.”

“Aw, and you’re such a nice elf, too. But heads up, people  still  want to kill me,” Vyr said with a tittering laugh. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Inquisitor, but I should probably hunt down my dwarf and tell him I’m leaving. Again.” She saluted with two fingers and left him alone. He noticed several people pointing up at him and toward Hawke and made an escape toward Cullen’s office to avoid their adoration.


	30. For Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Her.  
> For Them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this into two chapters.  
> Sorry they're short this time.

  


  


The sound of metal clinking echoed in the cold dark, always followed by a gasp of pain. Blood both old and new stained the prisoner’s arms, the newer wounds only allowed to heal far enough that they wouldn’t lead to death but kept raw enough that pain was felt without relief. The chains on the shackles had been fed through hoops at different parts of the dark cell, keeping the prisoner’s hands elevated in a stress position level with their heart, taut enough to prevent them from sitting down or resting comfortably in any way. The wrist shackles themselves were infused with lyrium to keep their mage captive from casting—or entering the Fade. The chains around the ankles were on short leashes, allowing for very limited stance adjustment.

A metal mechanism clicked and whined in the dark and then a square of pale light illuminated the broken body hanging in the centre of the cell.

“Bad news, elfy. Corypheus wants you alive,” the visitor said as he entered the prison. “Which means you and I are gonna spend a lot more time together until you start talking.” Silence answered. “You know, I’m going to be honest with you. All the leverage we have against you is what we can do to you physically—ha, for now. We know you’re with the Inquisition, so that’s a start. But once we capture one of your people, you can bet I’ll be bringing them in here. Then I’ll flay them before your eyes. You don’t want that, do you?” The mage didn’t move, didn’t speak. The interrogator approached his prisoner and grabbed a fistful of hair to force their gaze on him. “I can’t tell if you went back for the Herald or for Corypheus’ orb. Either way, I’ll get you to talk. We’ve got people tailing a particular elf. Foolish thing is travelling alone. Turns out, she’s related to the Herald.” The prisoner still did not react. “Did I mention they’re blood mages? The same ones that will be torturing her and pulling the truth from your tongue, should you refuse to open to me. What’s that? You saying something now, woman?” She licked her teeth, trying to work moisture into her mouth. He gestured behind him and a bowl was put in his hand that he promptly upended over her head. She gasped, but managed to get some water in her mouth.

“Raleigh…Samson,” she rasped and spat, “I know you.” 

“Oh yeah? Is that supposed to intimidate me? It’s not like it’s impossible for you to have learned that from your guards,” he laughed. 

“Your…armour…” she coughed, “will break.  He… cares not…for you. Forgotten. Poor Raleigh Samson.” She laughed and then hung limply when he released her from his hold.

“I’ll give you another chance to answer, now that I know you can talk,” he said, pulling a gauntlet on. “Where did the Inquisition go?” When she didn’t answer within a few seconds, he nodded to one of his assistants who stepped forward with a handful of thin wooden stakes. The guard knelt and inserted one beneath the nail of her big toe. The elf screamed, but did not break.

“Don’t…waste…your time.” Samson backhanded her across the face as another wooden stake was placed. Then another, and another. And though she howled in agony, she did not break. 

“Very well. We’ll be back,” he sneered. They left without removing the splinters. When he was gone, she let herself breathe heavily. Torture was never something someone could harden themselves to. Even as a prisoner beneath Falon’din, which made Samson’s tactics seem mild, she had escaped and in no small amount of time had largely healed from the psychological wounds. 

But one thing Samson had done that Falon’din hadn’t was using others against her. She couldn’t let him get his hands on Yin’s relative. Seething hatred pulsated for this Samson and his master.

Maordrid twisted her hands in the manacles, feeling the length of them, gauging the pain. With a sharp inhale, she tucked her thumb in and pulled as hard as she could, biting into her lip so hard it drew blood. The metal dug into her skin, cutting, cutting…there was a pop as her thumb dislocated and a sickening splat as she degloved part of her hand. But then she was free of the right manacle. For a moment she hung in the darkness, curled over her mangled hand, trying desperately not to cry out. With her right hand, she reached over to her left and displaced that thumb as well, pulling it free without damaging her left as she had to the first hand. Exhausted and on the verge of passing out, Maordrid fell back on her arse and carefully removed the splinters in her feet. That was harder, with the wood catching in the inflamed flesh. Slow and brutal, but she told herself that they wouldn’t let her go septic. They needed her, so they would heal her.

Maordrid lay back on the ground, resting her pounding head on the cold stone.

Then she slipped into the Fade.

  


\----------------------------------------------

  


The dreamscape was hard to navigate in her current state. Her emotions were ragged, like moth-eaten silk. She tried her damnedest to suppress her desperation, but spirits avoided her like the plague. Demons hovered at the edges of her vision, unable to catch her as she skimmed away to a different part of the Fade. There was no sign of the strange demon that had hounded her before, which made her wonder whether it had lost her trail after the Breach closed. She decided she would ponder it later as she stopped near a partially standing village that appeared to be on fire. A red spirit floated nearby watching the conflagration. 

“Have you seen the one with a mark in his hand? Or the one called Wolf?” she asked, pushing images of them from her mind. The spirit regarded her for a moment before fading into the fire. “Damn!” She moved on, heart pounding. Samson’s people never left her alone for long. They tried to deprive her from sleep as much as possible to try and wear down her walls. She moved on along a glittering white road and encountered a memory of some Tevinter slaves carving a statue. Half of the slaves turned to demons—the rest melted into spirits that promptly fled. Maordrid chased after the spirits, shifting into a panther to better escape the demons on her tail.

She began to lose hope of finding any sign of Yin in the Fade. Or Solas, for that matter. It was likely they were not asleep and her plan had failed. Another clever tactic of Samson, putting her in a cell where she could not watch time pass. Maordrid walked along a bridge, looking into silver streams that flowed below. Twisting white trees materialised as she went, though she paused when a school of ethereal fish passed over head, chased along by dragons the size of her forearm. 

Something seemed familiar about it. Maordrid emerged from her bestial form and turned in a full circle, taking it all in. White stone arches, flourishing gardens, and a ridiculous amount of bridges had all appeared too fast for it to have been from her sluggish mind.

A statue of a dragon at the end of the bridge told her where she was. She felt a pull to the south, like a gentle current in a quiet sea. But at the same time, she felt herself weakening. Pain was bleeding through from the other side, through her control.

Maordrid dashed through halls and across more bridges, trampling gardens as she followed the familiar current. At the opening of a crystalline arch, she heard voices. One was masculine—the other female.

As she emerged, she saw a spirit in form of a woman speaking with an elf. Her mouth fell open as Solas took his eyes off of the other woman to see who had entered his dream. A look of shock and disbelief spilled over his features as he jumped to his feet.

“Maordrid?” he whispered. The spirit woman disappeared as he ran to meet her. She let him take her hands tightly, looking her over. “It’s you. You’re alive!” He laughed, framing her face with both his hands, relief and hope in his eyes. Her legs weakened as aches and then pain began to creep up her body.

“I don't know how long I can last,” she said. “Corypheus captured me. Samson. I can feel myself waking up. I…I think they are after a family member of Yin’s.” Solas gripped her tighter as though that alone would keep her there. They were kneeling on the grass now. Blood started to appear on her hands, arms, and dripped from her cheek from unseen wounds.

“Tell me where you are,” he said, chasing her eyes with his, trying to keep her focus. “I will come for you. I will find you. Be strong until I reach you.” She smiled, touching his cheek with her fingertips.

“Perhaps I can save her. I’m sorry.” 

“No! Hold on! You must!” 

“Dammit, she’s in the Fade! Get her out of there!” a voice echoed. Maordrid smiled through the pain at him, then opened her eyes. “Oh, you sneaky bitch. You’re in trouble now. Salt her and leave her to hang.” 

For once, she laughed through the agony that followed.

  


  



	31. For Them

The door slammed open to his office and a gust of chilly wind assailed every part of him that wasn’t covered. Cullen looked up from his work to see Solas looking stormier than he’d ever seen him. He got to his feet, mildly alarmed.

“Solas? What’s happened?” he asked as the mage stopped just paces from his desk. 

“Do we know anything about Corypheus’ whereabouts—the location of Samson? Where his people are hiding out. They must have a stronghold somewhere,” he demanded, then took a shaky breath, backpedaling. “Maordrid is alive, but barely.” Cullen’s heart dropped.

“We don’t know anything yet, though we’re trying. But, wait, how do you know this?” he asked, seeing the frustration on Solas’ face. 

“She found me in the Fade somehow,” he looked away into a corner, “They’re hurting her. I tried to find her—follow her spirit, but she’s been cut off.” Solas shuddered visibly. “I fear that she is close to death. Or worse.”

“Death would be a mercy and Samson has none. They will make her Tranquil to pull what they want from her first. They may keep her alive as a gambit,” Cullen said. 

“You know this from experience, Commander?” Solas hissed and Cullen bristled at the accusation.

“I want to help Maordrid just as much as you do,” he said, fighting to maintain a level tone. They glared at each other in a silence that was shortlived. Solas deflated, looking worn.

“She mentioned that they may be after one of the Inquisitor’s family members,” he said. “That is all she was able to tell me.” Cullen nodded, hope blossoming.

“His sister. Yin told us she was coming to Skyhold from Wycome. She had been travelling this way since she heard her brother was revealed to have survived the Conclave. Last we heard, she had touched down in Denerim.” Cullen moved to comb over his personal map of Thedas, though Solas stayed where he was.

“That is a generalised area, Commander. It still does not tell us where they may go once they have her."

“Perhaps, but we can speculate. What we know is that Corypheus was operating out of one place and may have had a hand in another: Redcliffe…and a stronghold called Therinfal Redoubt.” Cullen turned to look at him at the same time that realisation seemed to hit the other man.

“That is where the Lord Seeker recalled the templars,” Solas said, coming to look at the map. 

“It is possible the place was abandoned when the templars were called to the attack on Haven,” Cullen said, “Or, it is crawling with them. It would be a very stupid move for Corypheus to have kept any of his forces stationed there.” Solas’ lips pressed into a thin line. 

“We could send a raven after the Inquisitor and Dorian. With a small force—fifteen, maybe—we could meet them near Therinfal, scout it out and strike,” Solas said. Cullen raised an eyebrow, surprised at this show of character.

“Even if you rode hard—Maordrid might not be alive when you get there,” he said, though he hated himself for it. The determination did not fade from the mage’s blue eyes.

“No, but we may save our Inquisitor’s sister,” he said, walking away from the map, pausing before continuing in a lower voice, “At the very least we find Maordrid’s body and closure.” Cullen’s fingers curled into a fist as he imagined her suffering at the hands of his ex-colleague. Samson would pay.

“How soon can you be ready to depart?” Solas looked over his shoulder at the question.

“Quickly,” he replied. 

“Good. Gather some of the companions to take with you. Recruiting that… _boy_ may be a good idea. He came from there, he may be of some use,” Cullen said. “Take our warriors as well. Cassandra may not be willing to go, but Blackwall and Iron Bull I know hold her in high regard.” Solas nodded and opened the door, then stopped, halfway out.

“Thank you, Commander." Cullen looked up at him, meeting his eyes.

“I’m not doing this for you. It’s for Maordrid and the Lavellans,” he said. Solas inclined his head and was gone.

  


  



	32. For Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since these are shorter chapters, I figured I'd post them sooner. Also, I just made it to 100k words in this story (!!??)

They stood outside of the Gull and Lantern, calculating it as though it were a stronghold they were about to storm.

“We’ve weathered harsher storms,” Yin remarked. “You can do this.”

“This isn’t a storm. This is a demon that has been growing fat on my life’s troubles and has gotten too heavy to carry. It’s time to kill it,” Dorian said, then charged the door with Yin following on his heels. He nearly slammed into the Tevinter as he stopped abruptly on the other side. Yin saw why—the commons were utterly empty. “Uh-oh. Nobody’s here. This doesn’t bode well.”

“No shit. _Ojo!_ ” Yin said, reaching for his staff as a shadow to their left moved along the wall. A dark skinned man emerged, drawing Dorian’s attention. Yin was about to remove his staff when the man spoke.

“Dorian.” 

“Father,” he said, voice darkening. Yin slowly removed his hand, but did not relax. “So the whole story about the ‘family retainer’ was just…what? A smoke screen?” 

“Then you were told,” his father said. Dorian turned to him, looking hurt.

“I’m as surprised as you are!” he exclaimed. 

“He didn’t know I would be here, Dorian,” Magister Pavus said, “I apologise for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved.” Seething, Dorian rounded on his father.

“Of course not. Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think? What is ‘this’ exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?” The magister gave a long-suffering sigh.

“This is how it has always been,” he said. 

“Elaborate planning just to get Dorian here,” Yin remarked, “Now talk.”

“Yes, Father. Talk to me! Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger,” Dorian said with acid.

“Shall I leave? Or may I stay for the showdown?” Yin asked.

“You’re going nowhere, I want a witness. Someone to hear the truth,” Dorian said and Yin smirked, leaning comfortably against the wall.

“Dorian, there’s no need to—”

“I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves,” Dorian said to him. Yin raised an eyebrow.

“ _No jodas mas,_ ” Yin said, shocked, “That’s what all of this is about? Who you sleep with?” 

“That’s not all it’s about,” Dorian said. 

“Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me,” Halward said, wringing his hands. 

“What, so you can spout more convenient lies?” Dorian said, now shaking with fury, pacing before his father. “He taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of the weak mind.’ Those are _his_ words. But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?” He turned, pain writ across his features. “You tried to _change_ me!” Yin’s heart sank at the same time that a newfound dislike surfaced for Halward Pavus. 

“I only wanted what was best for you!” his father cried. Dorian gave a bitter laugh.

“You wanted what was best for _you_! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!” he said, then stalked away across the tavern. Yin glanced at his father who was staring wounded after his son. Looking at him he saw a man full of regret, but Yin knew it ran deeper than that. Yin approached Dorian.

“I want more than anything to get you out of here, _lethallan_ ,” Yin said, lowering his voice so only he could hear. “But you deserve an apology. It won’t hurt to hear him out. If he starts saying something you don’t like, you can leave.” He saw the inner struggle, as pride warred with hurt and loss. His sharp ears picked up a quick inhale before Dorian turned and walked back toward his father. 

“Tell me why you came,” he said. 

“If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition…” Halward began. _Not a good start, father,_ Yin thought.

“You didn’t. I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do.” He felt a swell of pride and affection for Dorian. It was a shame that his father seemed blind to the gift before him. “Once, I had a father who would have known that.” Dorian jerked his head at Yin, ready to leave.

“Once I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed,” the man said. “I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive me.” The look Dorian gave him wasn’t something Yin was prepared for. He was lost—looking for guidance. Something Yin was all too familiar with. He gave him a gentle smile and nodded, moving toward the door to give them some privacy.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _Ojo_ =essentially 'look out!'  
>  _No jodas mas_ = 'Don't fuck around', but in this instance, 'Stop messing with me' fits Yin's intentions. He has a hard time fathoming that anyone cares about who sleeps with who, since he's always been a free boi.
> 
> Last note:  
> I always thought to have my Inquisitor just pull Dorian out of that place. When I wrote this, I did a lot of reading up on what people did in their playthroughs and while ultimately I don't like any of the dialogue options with having Dorian listen, I do like the idea of the Inquisitor encouraging Dorian to hear his father out, if only because he deserves the possibility of an apology. Also, I read David Gaider's follow up fiction on Halward's funeral and I really liked that, so it heavily influenced my writing here.


	33. Second Guessing

She had to hand it to the humans. Their cruelty knew no bounds. Though she was barely conscious as they lowered her into the well, she made eye contact with every person present. 

“Maybe a dunk in the cold water will wake you up, elf,” one of the guards said. Samson wasn’t present, much to her relief, but she wasn’t sure how much better his lackeys would be. Regardless, the water  did wake her up. It soothed the wounds they had recently inflicted after partially healing those dealt from the wooden stakes. The skin on her hand had been all but healed save for a bit around her wrist that would be aggravated by the manacles as she hung in the well. Once she was up to her shoulders, they released her. She hadn’t expected them to drop the links entirely, so she sank some before frantically kicking her feet, barely breaking the surface in time. Mirthful laughter echoed down the walls of the well as she struggled to stay above, gasping for breath. If she hadn’t known they were torturers, she would have thought them normal men laughing at a good joke. Maordrid scrabbled along the wall searching for a handhold or something to put her feet on.

“Just tell us when you’re ready to talk and we’ll fish you out! Otherwise you can drown for all we care. Your new blood mage friends will be here soon, so think about that. Drowning is probably better!” one of them shouted down. She finally found a stone just wide enough for the tips of her toes to fit or her heel. Fortunately the well was narrow enough that she was able to brace a leg against its curvature. At least she wouldn’t be sinking.

While she shivered and tried to preserve her energy, she thought about her meeting with Solas. It wasn’t the hope that he might know how to find her that came to mind first, but rather how he had looked at her. The way he had held her hands, gentle yet firm—his touch at her face. She had never seen him display affection to anyone in all her time knowing him. But perhaps this Solas was different, even if it was supposed to be the same timeline. He  _seemed_ different from the self-assured leader he had become. The way he acted and spoke around everyone didn’t even appear to her as part of the facade. He had been genuine and honest, forming friendships without ulterior motives. And it was working on her. Perhaps too well.

Maordrid shivered violently, leaning her head against the stone. There was not much hope for her path. She had set upon it knowing fully that she would likely die. She could die  now , but for some reason she felt indifferent to it. All that she knew was that she had to rescue Yin’s relative before she did.

The foot in the water was beginning to go numb and a bone-deep pain radiated through her leg. Hypothermia did not have a slow onset. With her stature, it would be much shorter. She shifted from one foot to the other to give it time to warm up again. Over and over she alternated, watching as the sky grew dark above. It was the first time since being captured that she had seen the open world. She began to think it would have been better if they’d just kept her locked up—seeing time go by only reminded her that she didn’t yet have a plan of escape.

  



	34. Sudden Whirlwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Finals week. Promise there will be more updates after Thursday. :/
> 
> But for now, something short and sweet. Sort of.

  


Yin sat on the bench some way from the tavern, rubbing his hands together and staring at the door. He was beginning to think he would need to stage a rescue mission if his friend didn’t come out soon, but quickly scrapped the idea when the door opened to admit a rather despondent looking Dorian. Yin immediately got up and walked over.

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride,” Dorian said first. “Once I would have been overjoyed to hear that. Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.” Dorian walked slowly away from him and sat in his unoccupied spot.

“Are you all right?” he asked, sitting beside him. He wouldn’t look at him.

“No. Not really,” Dorian said. Yin placed a hand on his knee for a breath, wanting to hug him—to show him that he had his support. But he didn’t know what Dorian wanted or needed and he didn’t want to smother him.  _Since when did you start analysing that type of body language?_ It did worry him. He had never been the one to dig deep into the personal lives of people he was attracted to. It was always…temporary.

“Maybe if you keep working at it, keep talking…” he said, wishing he had the solution for all his friends’ hurts.

“It was a start, at least,” Dorian said, staring back at the door. “He’s a good man, my father. Deep down. He taught me principle is important. And…he cares for me, in his own way. But he won’t ever change. I can’t forgive him for what he did. I won’t.” They sat in silence, just thinking. Yin sat back on the bench, watching his face.

“Maybe one day you’ll be able to talk. See eye to eye,” he said. Dorian’s chuckle was short and sweet.

“You’re very optimistic. It’s a charming trait,” he said. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.” There was a tinge of nervousness to his voice that didn’t slip past Yin. 

“Dorian, we’ve travelled weeks together. You suffered through me when we time travelled—I suffered through the Storm Coast. Then Haven. I’m still here and…if anything, I think even more of you than before,” he said, frustrated.

“The things you say,” Dorian said. Yin leaned forward again, grinning.

“I know you can’t  usually take Antivans seriously, but I mean it, Dorian.” 

“My father never understood. Living a lie…it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart,” he said, looking at him. 

“I agree,” Yin said, leaning forward. 

“Inquisitor!” He stopped just shy of Dorian’s lips, his own twisting in a snarl.

“Yes?” he demanded, standing up. The Inquisition agent was utterly oblivious to the moment he’d interrupted, standing at attention.

“Urgent news, Ser,” he said, saluting. Yin gestured irritably for him to continue. “From Skyhold. Commander Cullen sent word that…” the scout trailed off uncertainly. “Sorry, Inquisitor. It’s…”

“Go on, I can handle it,” Yin said as patiently as he could. The scout took a deep breath.

“Your sister has been reported captured by Samson and possibly taken to Therinfal Redoubt. They have reason to believe that Lady Maordrid might already be a captive there,” the blood drained from his face, “A small force has set out in that direction. They will meet you nearby the stronghold to discuss a plan of attack. He said Messere Solas will be there with Warden Blackwall, Messere Cole, the Iron Bull, and…a Ser Tess Tickle?” 

“Okay,” was all he could manage. The scout saluted more hesitantly this time and slowly backed away. Yin’s feet took him forward but his mind refused to tread anywhere but in the panicked circle it was now running. He saw their horses around the corner of the inn—his body lurched toward them methodically. Nearly there, he was wrenched around by his wrist and suddenly his lips were pressed up against something. For one stunned moment, he froze up, forgetting what and where he was. But then he slammed back into his body and kissed Dorian back, gripping the other man tightly with one hand at his hip. When they broke away, both gave small laughs. 

“Okay,” he repeated, his hand tangling in his own hair. Dorian chortled.

“Just okay?” he mused. Yin shook his head.

“ No! You’re…amazing,” he said, still reeling. “I…” Dorian’s hands cradled the sides of his neck, stilling his mind.

“We’re both caught in a whirlwind right now. But we’ve taken care of me—now let’s go take back the girls,” Dorian said. “I do propose that we drink ourselves into oblivion after this, however.” Yin nodded happily and climbed onto his horse. Together, they sped out of Redcliffe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	35. Tribulations

  


She jerked violently awake in the water at the sound of irate voices. Everything hurt. She had narrowly survived the earlier stoning they had by diving beneath the surface. The skin above her left brow had sustained a laceration and another on her forearm, both of which had been bleeding sluggishly since then. She had kept above the water by telling herself over and over that suffering wasn’t for fear of death—it was for another’s. 

“You kept her in there that long? You idiots! Is she even alive?” Peering up, she saw the outline of Samson poke his head over the edge of the well. “Get her out of there! And you—heal whatever damage has been done. You best pray to the Elder One that she doesn’t lose a limb.” They lowered a chain with a hook on the end into the well. She watched emotionless as the metal banged and scraped against the stone until finally plopping into the water. “Hook yourself onto that, elf.” She was too afraid to move. If she did, she would sink and that would be the end of it. Her limbs were too stiff with cold at this point to do anything. The hook slid along the wall until it bumped her shoulder. Maordrid slowly lowered the chain links onto the hook and then they were pulling her up. A weak gasp of pain escaped from her as ligaments and tendons and muscles moved for the first time in too long. When she emerged, she was dropped unceremoniously onto the hard ground. A mage knelt before her legs and examined them with magic.

“Eh, she’s got some nerve damage in her feet. If it were any of us, we’d pro’ly be losin’ a toe,” the mage grunted. “Probably some more elf crap.” Jagged, unrefined healing magic shot through her legs, possibly doing more damage than repair. But her mind was too exhausted to care. 

“The other mages are here. Get her into the cell and give her something to wake her up. She needs to be conscious for the blood magic to work,” Samson said. They hauled her up by her arms and dragged her back into the cell where they wordlessly fettered and fed her a foul mixture that grabbed her mind with molten talons, pulling her back to the surface. She screamed as the feeling of fiery ants crawled under her skin. She tried to claw at herself, to itch and bleed it out of her, but the mages drew her bonds taut, laughing sinisterly. 

“You won’t get what you want from me,” she panted, “Make me Tranquil and be done with it!” 

“Oh, that can certainly be arranged,” Samson said, coming into the room with a metal rod in his hand. “Once the blood mages have pulled every answer from you, we’ll make you Tranquil. Then you’ll serve beneath Corypheus as his own personal pet.” Maordrid recoiled in horror.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said. 

“No, I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s called interrogation and this is how we do it,” he sneered. Just then, two men came into the room in Venatori regalia. “While I’m preparing the lyrium brand, they’re going to begin and I’ll ask questions. If by some ridiculous reason you resist that, we’ll bring in a little something that will quickly change your mind.” He nodded to the Venatori mages who then took up positions on her flanks. They made cuts on their palms in combination with two slashes on her legs. Then they began chanting in Tevene, low and sombre. She felt the magic infiltrate through the cuts in her skin and take hold like a vice. At full strength, resisting two mages would be difficult, but possible. She was a strong mage. But sapped of magic, tortured, and exhausted…she didn’t stand much of a chance. 

“You should thank me, really. I’m giving you one more chance to make your own choice to tell us…before I take that ability away altogether,” he said, brandishing the brand. “Now, let’s start with yourself. Who are you?” Images flashed through her head, truth and lies mingling, knotting together…then slowly coming undone. Hundreds of years of meticulously constructed identities. Memories of people and places. Somewhere called home, swept away by the tide of empowered blood.

“I’m…” she clenched her jaw, trying to keep it closed. _You’re no one. No one. Don’t say anyth—_ “ _Ame Elvhen!_ ” she gasped.

“Was that elven?” Samson asked, looking to the two mages. “Shit, do we need a translator in here?”

“I believe all she said was that she is Elvhen, Ser,” one of the Venatori said, mid-incantation. The spell lessened for a moment as he spoke, giving her time to gather herself again. 

“Obviously she’s an elf. She playing smart with us?” Samson said. 

“An ancient elf, I think is what she means,” the mage said. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” He took hold of his end of the spell again and she felt something like a band of pressure around her skull. She nodded against her will, only because she thought it. “See? You’ll speak to him in our tongue from now on.” 

“Well I’ll be damned,” the ex-templar said, a hunger in his eyes. He stepped closer to her face with a greasy grin. “You’re from the ancient times? Pre-Imperium?” This time, her nod was limited to a dip of her chin, but resisting seemed to make the pain worse. “Interesting. Are there others out there like you?” She bit down on her tongue to keep from answering. Blood welled up and around her lips. Samson’s eyes widened as he realised what was going on and ordered them to stop. Maordrid slumped in her bonds.

“You’ll regret this. I swear, by the blood in my heart,” she panted, trying to get to her feet. Samson laughed.

“No, you’ll regret me if you bite your tongue out. Since you’re being a mule about it, I’d like to show you what will happen if you don’t cooperate.” Samson whistled through his teeth and at his signal there was commotion outside of her cell. The door swung open and three guards came in with another prisoner. Maordrid hung from the chains, mouth going slack.

“No,” she breathed. It was another elf, a young woman by the looks of it. Her eyes were blindfolded and there were wax plugs stuffed into her ears. Her ashen hair was mussed up from her undoubtedly rough capture and a thin braid trailed down her back swung loosely. She still wore her Dalish garb as if she’d only been outside hunting mere moments ago. 

“This, you see, isn’t just any old relative of the Herald. This is his bloody _sister_!” Samson laughed, raising the woman’s chin with the end of the lyrium brand. “Do you want to see her hurt? I’ll make her Tranquil too, if you like. Seems magic runs in the Lavellan bloodline.” Maordrid stared at Yin’s sister, but then met Samson’s gaze. The man took a knife and made a clean cut across Lavellan’s palm. She yelped, trying to bring her injured limb to her body but the ruffians held her still. With a nod at the mages, the spell resumed and Maordrid’s back arched involuntarily as they used the combined blood to make a stronger effect. “Now, where were we? Ah, you’re ancient. You went for Corypheus’ orb, and I know that in itself has to be ancient. It’d be nice to know if there were more out there just waiting to be claimed. How about it? Do you know where they are?” 

“YES,” she grunted out, “I-I-I know…h-OW to…find, but not _where_.” 

“Good, see, it’s getting easier,” he said. The smugness in his voice boiled her blood. Everything was boiling, but she drifted to the back of her mind as the mages took control. “Now, what about who owned these orbs? They were gods, right? Don’t matter if they were Old Gods, Elvhen Gods, or whatever. Do you know where the god is that owned my master’s orb?” Maordrid slowly looked up at him, mind enthralled.

“Yes.” Samson hefted the now-glowing brand in his hands, holding it close to her face.

“You will show me _everything_ ,” he said, and then spun at the sound of shouts in the corridor outside. The door flung wide open to reveal a soldier with his sword bared.

“Ser, we’re under attack!” Samson cursed and surveyed the room.

“Keep them in here and hidden until I get back,” he ordered and then followed the man. Lavellan must have sensed the commotion and tried to yank at her bonds which earned her a kick between the shoulder blades and a blow to the face with the back of a gauntlet. Maordrid surged forward with a snarl.

“Don’t _fucking_ touch her,” she hissed. “Or I’ll free your hands from your miserable body.” The mercenary laughed.

“And how are you gonna do that?” he taunted, stepping over Lavellan to get to her. He raised his hand, still speckled with the other elf’s blood. Maordrid braced for it, but then suddenly there was a flash of colourful light and a fight broke out. Ears ringing, she sat helpless as shadows invaded the cell and the Venatori blood mages attempted to stop them in their tracks. But then they fell, a sliver of silver darting here and there across throats and through chests. Then, it was silent, except for the shouting outside and the sound of magic humming through the air.

“ _Do my eyes deceive me?_ ” a heavily accented voice asked. One of the shadows took form, a magelight banishing the darkness from a familiar face. 

“ _Shiveren?_ ” she croaked. The other elf glanced behind him at Lavellan still sitting blind and deaf beneath a table. 

“ _Let’s get you out of here,”_ he said, taking his enchanted sword to one of the chains at her feet. “ _We’ll remove the lyrium ones outside.”_

“Unbind her,” she said, indicating Lavellan. Shiveren looked askance at her, but did as she said, kneeling before the other woman and carefully removing blind and wax. “She’s the Herald’s sister. If you can’t get me out, you must help her.” 

“Creators,” Lavellan gasped when she saw her. “You know my brother?” Shiv was able to easily lockpick open her manacles, after which she helped Shiveren break the remaining chains binding Maordrid.

“I do. We’ll get you to him,” she said, attempting to take a step, but her knees gave out. Shiveren caught her. 

“ _Lethallin_ , can you help my friend walk? I can protect you if you keep close to me,” he said. Lavellan nodded and drew Maordrid’s arm across her shoulders. Shiv pressed his forehead to Maori’s briefly and then swathed himself in shadow again, slipping out the door. “It’s clear! Let’s go!” Maordrid gritted her teeth against the agony of moving her legs, but caught sight of something as they were leaving the cell. 

“The key,” she rasped, pointing to the wall where they hung. Lavellan grabbed them, then stooped to snatch a dagger from a dead guard’s waist, tucking it into her belt. Then she hurriedly inserted the keys into the cuffs. A laugh of relief slipped from her when they finally fell free of her raw wrists and she could once again reach across the Veil. Then they were hobbling off after Shiveren. Shadows dashed through the halls and across courtyards, slaying men everywhere. She didn’t see a single elf dead amongst them. 

“Where is Samson?” she asked him when they caught up.

“Coward ran off as soon as he saw us,” he said, grimacing. “Or rather, he jumped at shadows and decided he didn’t want to take his chances.” He motioned for them to move down a set of stairs, coming to Maordrid’s other side to help tackle the task. 

“ _What are you doing here?_ ” she asked. Shiv sighed.

“ _They stole a schematic from a temple of June. As a matter of fact, it’s what allowed us to infiltrate this place today,”_ he said. _“But during the attack, I think something else was happening. The first man we took out was possessed by a demon. Some of the hallways seemed…I don’t know, warped?”_

_“You attacked using exactly what they wanted to make for themselves?_ ” she said. 

_“We just wanted them to know what sort of power they were messing with and to teach them not to steal from us,”_ he said. _“You just happened to be here. I had no idea you’d been captured.”_

“You two speak Elvhen fluently,” Lavellan commented. Shiv gave her a sidelong glance.

“You can understand us?” he asked carefully. Lavellan cackled.

“I don’t think even my Keeper could have kept up with that,” she said. “Although…your dialect sounds pretty outdated. You from another country?”

“You could say that,” Maori answered. They descended the rest of the way in silence and seemed to have escaped the din of battle as they emerged onto a stone bridge outside. That was until something whistled through the air behind them.

“ _Shit!_ Take her and run to the forest!” Shiv yelled as the arrow clanked into the stone by their feet. He shoved Maordrid into Lavellan’s hands and bared his sword, shadow swirling around him as he went to engage their pursuers. The two of them limped off, hearing an order to follow the escaped elves. 

“Will he come back for us?” Lavellan asked.

“I’ve never known him to say anything he didn’t mean,” Maordrid mumbled as the forest-line came into sight. Nearly a quarter of the way there, the hair on the back of her neck pricked up and she turned her head achingly to look behind them. With all the strength she had left, she pushed the Dalish woman away and erected half her Aegis just in time to slow a blow meant to cleave one of them in half. The sword hovered in midair, the attacker fighting with all his might to follow through—and then he was choking on his own blood as Yin’s sister thrust a dagger through his middle. Maordrid released the shield and staggered backward as the sword toppled harmlessly to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, staring at his corpse. Maori looked at her while she tried to catch her breath.

“For what?” she asked.

“They smited me when they first captured me. Normally I would have sensed him but…” 

“We’re alive. That’s what matters,” Maori said and then they both looked back to see Shiveren materialise seemingly from nothing, followed by six other elves. Lavellan blinked in surprise at them all.

“Damn,” the girl gushed. Shiv nudged the dead man with his foot before coming to help Maori to her feet. One of the others helped Lavellan. 

“We couldn’t get them all. Something started attacking both parties, so we disengaged. Either way, I believe they’re rallying to come after us,” Shiveren said as they melded with the forest. “We’ve just enough time to get you some healing but…”

“I have so much to ask you,” she said but Shiveren shook his head.

“And I, you, little traveller,” he smirked. “There is not enough time.”

“There never has been,” she said sadly. He barked an order to one of his elves. She recognised the one that approached as another ancient—Ithellin who had been a youngster when he’d joined the cause. Her and a few others had teased him relentlessly for years about being a ‘young ancient’. He knelt now and healed her, bearing a smirk and she knew he was likely remembering the same thing.

“ _What were you doing that got you captured?_ ” Shiveren said, emphasising the last word. “ _Unless that was on purpose._ ” 

“ _Not this time. Corypheus attacked Haven. He had—”_ she glanced over at Lavellan and lowered her voice—” _Fen’harel’s orb. I tried to take it from him and gravely underestimated his power.”_ Shiveren gave her a smoldering glare, eyes narrowed. Ithellin snorted, moving on to heal her feet.

_“Brave, but stupid. You know I've always admired your dedication and determination to do things yourself and alone, but it’s foolish._ ” She sighed and looked away from him. It was a lesson of the ages. He continued, “ _You should have your own agents. A team that you can keep close to you. If I could be there for you like old times, I would._ ” He glanced at Lavellan who was being dutifully distracted by one of the others. _“And you know, without my own team I can say with certainty I would have perished many times over.”_ He gripped one of her hands between his own, drawing her attention back to him. _“Please tell me you will consider it. For me and for others. We all care about our duty…but there are many that would be devastated by your death._ ” Maordrid looked over at Yin’s sister, considering. She was young, lean. Uneven locks cut just above her shoulders with a braid or two, including the single long one that she was fiddling with in her lap. She’d a narrow face speckled with freckles, mischievous lips, and eyes of oxblood, a testament to her elven lineage. She had blood writing on her face, but Maori had never seen the markings before. She was pretty, just like her brother, but Yin certainly looked more the exotic Antivan than this pale thing that looked to have come from the snowy lands. Shiveren followed her gaze. _“There is something to be said of the mortals,_ ” he said thoughtfully, _“They are forced to master skills in their short time alive. The heights they climb to.”_

_“What are you saying?”_ she asked. He gave her a secretive smile.

“ _Da’len_ , what is your name?” he asked Lavellan. The young woman started and looked over at them.

“Dhrui of Clan Lavellan,” she replied. Maori slapped his arm and recoiled in pain with a hiss, forgetting her injuries.

“What are you doing?” she asked him as Dhrui joined them eagerly. 

“Dhrui is a lovely name,” he said, ignoring her. “How good are you at keeping secrets?”

“Depends on who it’s for,” Dhrui said.

“What about for someone who saved your life?” he said, picking his fingernails. 

“Oh, you mean you? Of course. But only if I can ask questions,” she said. Maordrid wasn’t liking where this was going. 

“You’re every bit your brother’s sister,” she said.

“Don’t mind my friend. I would ask that when you are in the safe harbour of the Inquisition that you do not bring us up, if asked how you escaped,” Shiv said. “Tell them that our friend here broke you both out during the night and discovered that the blood mages had accidentally attracted a demon. The two of you used the chaos to escape.” Dhrui looked between them, clearly trying to piece it all together.

“All right. I can do that. But once we’re safe, I want answers. You’ve piqued me,” she said. Shiv nodded, satisfied. “I probably need to know your name if this is going to work out.” Maordrid sighed. Shiveren was right on so many levels. Dhrui was a loose end—one she had almost overlooked in her exhaustion.

“You may call me Maordrid,” she said. Dhrui half-bowed. Ithellin, mostly ignored until then, sat up with a worried expression.

“We’re going to have to rip your toenails out if the tissue is to heal all the way,” he said. “I’m sorry, _lethallin._ ” Maordrid nodded and lay back on the ground. Shiveren carefully covered her mouth with his hand while motioning Dhrui to hold one of her arms down. 

“One…two…” With a snap in the Veil, Ithellin yanked all ten out at once. Maordrid’s yell was stifled against her friend’s hand while painful tears leaked from her eyes. Ithellin poured liquid on her bleeding toes and wrapped them with linen strips. “That should be it. We’ll let your body heal the rest so we don’t weaken your immune system.” Maordrid went to speak, but then there was a massive explosion that shook the earth around them. The elves all stood up, baring swords and warhammers as fields of defensive magic sprung up. 

“Let’s get moving!” Shiv ordered, but then was cut off as a wall of flame came roaring through the trees. The force of it tossed several of them into the air. When Maordrid climbed unsteadily to her feet with help of a boulder she saw that she had been separated from the others. To her right she felt a massive pull where their attackers were advancing. A flash of emerald between the trees told her that a rift had just appeared. More attacks came in form of flaming rocks and lightning.

“Maordrid!” Shiv shouted. “Get out of here! We’ll get Dhrui to safety!” She saw him waving at her from the other side of the wall of flame. She gave him a nod and began pulling magic around her to shift. She wouldn’t just run—they needed something to give them a head start. It was dangerous with how thin the Veil was in these woods. She could sense things gathering just on the other side as she cast her spell, shifting into a griffon. Casting anything else would likely kill her if she tried in her state of exhaustion, but being in this form lent some strength she didn’t have as an elf. With a powerful leap, she flew above the trees and instantly spotted the advancing line of enemies. She dove down and presented her talons, ripping into several men and sending them barrelling into their comrades. Many shrieked when they realised a griffon was tearing their ranks apart. She proved too quick for those without magic, and those with it were doing too much damage to the forest around them trying to hit her. Maordrid fled to the skies before they could cause a wildfire, hoping the distraction had been enough for Shiveren and the others. 

She flew over a stretch of forest and hills until darkness fell, venturing toward some farmlands she’d spotted from the air. She chose a farmstead at random and melted from her griffon form, sneaking into the barn. Inside were a few livestock and a single horse, all slumbering happily in their stalls. Whatever strange drug they had force-fed her earlier had given her a migraine and sweats. Maordrid didn’t have the strength to climb the ladder into the loft, opting instead to flop into a stack of hay near the horse where sleep welcomed her like an old friend.


	36. Not All is Lost

Yin and Dorian rode hard for two days through forest until they reached a neglected road that would supposedly lead to Therinfal Redoubt, according to their poorly drawn map. While they stood with hoods drawn up against a light rain trying to gauge their position, the thundering of hooves rose up behind them on the road. They instantly threw up barriers and turned to meet whoever was coming, only to see horses bearing the Inquisition insignia. 

“The chances,” Dorian said over the rain. Yin waved them down. The others stopped several paces from where they stood and dismounted, leading their horses over. Solas, Blackwall, Bull, and surprisingly Sera were all present. Yin caught a glimpse of Cole lingering in the background but the boy was staring off into the trees.

“Tess Tickle, of fucking course,” Yin realised when they were within earshot. Sera giggled.

“Yeah, Maori’s gonna owe me that arrow shootin’ contest after this. Only reason I’m here,” she said. Solas stepped forward, shoulders hunched against the rain despite his cloak. 

“You saw her?” Yin asked him. His hood dipped as he nodded.

“She came to me in the Fade in poor shape. There was not much to go off of in means of determining her location but I believe Commander Cullen wrote you…?” 

“Have you seen her since? In your dreams?” Yin asked. Solas shook his head, the hood moving just enough that he could see bruises beneath the other man’s eyes. It must have been tearing him up inside. Solas sighed irritably. “Not a trace, despite my best efforts,” he said. 

“Do you think…” Yin swallowed, “Do you think that the demon or—thing, whatever it is, caught up to her?” 

“I’m afraid only she will be able to answer that. Regardless, the longer we stand here the longer your sister and Maordrid must endure our enemy’s company,” he said. He did not fail to notice that Solas only spoke in present tense. He refused to acknowledge the possibility that she may be dead. Solas’ hope gave him hope.

“I’m going to crush that little bastard in his armour like a snail,” Bull growled. They handed their reins off to a few of the soldiers accompanying them and walked into the forest with Solas, Yin, and Dorian at the forefront. 

“The keep should not be far from this road,” Solas said as they weaved through the trees. 

“That’s funny. Do I smell smoke?” Dorian said. 

“It’s coming from ahead,” Yin said, picking up his pace. The others prepared their weapons as they followed the scent and soon they came upon a glade. “Leave the horses.” They left one of their men in charge of the mounts and began marching forward where the strongest of the smoke was coming from. 

“Stop!” Blackwall whisper-shouted. “I think I saw something at the edge there.” They all stopped at the same time in an arrow-formation and watched warily as someone emerged from the trees. For a moment, it seemed the shadows beyond were alive, but as soon as the figure left the protection of the forest they stilled. The stranger was a woman, by the looks of it.

“Tell me when to shoot, Inky,” Sera said with an arrow drawn to her cheek. But Yin wasn’t listening. The Inquisitor took one hesitant step and then burst into a run when he recognised the tired face.

“Dhrui!” When he reached her, he hugged her tightly, spinning her around in a circle. _One thing goes right for once._ “Gods, what the fuck are you doing alone?” He released her, checking her over and seeing cuts and bruises everywhere. The others quickly caught up, staring worriedly off into the forest. Solas handed her a healing potion and some water that she gratefully accepted. “What happened? We heard you were taken captive,” Yin asked again once she had drank. Dhrui cast a look back toward the trees, then at him.

“A woman helped me, but we were attacked as we escaped,” she said, giving the ground a thousand-league stare. “She told me to keep running west and I’d find an Inquisition camp, eventually. The forest all looks the same here, I think I’ve been running circles. Some Dalish I am.”

“Did she give a name?” Solas asked.

“It was something funny for an elf. Mor…Maordrid, I think?” Solas gave him an urgent look.

“Mao went back to fight?” Sera exclaimed. “That woman is frigging nuts.”

“A shield that shimmers, shaping spirit, she’s unbound, _I’m so tired, but I can’t rest until she’s safe_ ,” Cole said, popping into existence beside Sera. The rogue made a disgusted sound and slid away from him. “I can’t hear her anymore.”

“We should press forward if there’s a chance she may still be alive. How many could you say were in the keep?” Solas asked. Dhrui shook her head slowly, thinking.

“More than us, that’s for sure. She took out a lot, but she’s hurt. I think it’s safe enough to take the horses,” she said. “C’mon, I can show you the way. I think.” They needed no prodding, returning to the horses and heading into the forest at Dhrui Lavellan’s direction. They rode for a long time in wary silence. Yin was increasingly surprised by the distance his sister had come on foot until finally some structural grey began to poke between the trees. 

“What’s that over there?” Blackwall asked, pointing to a disturbance in the forest to their right some ways away. His heart sunk at the sight of glinting green in that direction. Dhrui slid from her place behind Yin and walked over with her brother close behind. Yin had them stay behind as he and Solas approached the rift several paces away—no demons except for some wraiths—and carefully closed it as Solas dispatched the enemies. When they returned, the others were still staring at the wreckage.

“This is where we were attacked and separated,” she said. There were massive marks on the trees, some of which appeared to have been on fire long enough to burn to their tops. In the ground were several deep fissures that almost looked to have been carved out by molten lava. Corpses were strewn about in varying states of disfigurement. 

“Not a single survivor,” Solas whispered. “This was all her?” Dhrui shook her head.

“There were blood mages and normal mages. They nearly set the forest on fire,” she said. “But…yeah, she did the rest.” The others spread about looking amongst the dead for their friend but finding nothing. 

“Seriously looks like a beast tore its way through these guys. Remind me to never _ever_ get on her bad side,” Iron Bull muttered as they pressed on once they’d determined the area clear of Maordrid’s corpse.

“If she’s even still alive,” Sera added, whining when Blackwall chastised her. “Wot? Just bein’ realistic. She had to’ve gotten tired sometime.” 

“I agree, Sera. This isn’t looking good,” Dorian said as they emerged onto a green. Above, the land curved up and turned into an elevated plateau upon which sat Therinfal Redoubt. Streams of smoke issued from somewhere within it. In the centre of the green, a single man lay in a circle of bloodstained grass.

“Her doing as well?” Yin asked, stopping beside the corpse whose face was frozen in a permanent grimace of rage.

“The first to attack us once we were out,” Dhrui said. “I…was smited when I was captured. She put herself between me and him without hesitation. _Fenedhis_ , if it hadn’t been for her at all we wouldn’t have survived.” They continued on without another word. When they came to crossing the bridge leading to the keep itself, the world remained silent.

“Something feels off about this place,” Solas said. 

“I agree. Like a taint lies upon it,” Dorian said. 

“It was Envy,” Cole said, appearing beside Solas. “When the Templars came, it twisted the commanders, forced their fury, their fight, they’re red inside. They fought at Haven.”

“Great, so there’s a demon here?” Yin said as they ascended some steps. Streaks of soot marred the stone walls around the area. Bodies lay helter-skelter throughout the way as well. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Solas said. “Whatever happened here, I believe the demon was banished. What remains is the stain it left on the Veil.” He looked warily at Dhrui, “You mentioned there were blood mages?” Her face was bloodless as she looked around. 

“Y-Yes, they…gods, they used blood magic to interrogate her. I couldn’t hear what they were asking but they were probably trying to get information about you,” her voice cracked, “One of them had a lyrium brand.” They all stopped before going in any farther. 

“You don’t think Samson would do that, do you?” Yin said, though he wasn’t sure who he was asking. The others were uncomfortably quiet. “I want someone to take Dhrui back out. There’s no reason for her to go through all of this again.” 

“I’ll go with her,” Blackwall said. 

“I’m with Beardy. And with Girl Yin, I guess. We deal with ‘nuff demons already,” Sera added with a glare at Cole. Yin hugged his sister one more time. He ordered the rest of the force brought from Skyhold to stay with those three while his party ventured forward.

“If things turn sour, go back to where we first met on the road,” he said. Then the others departed. As they progressed into a courtyard, the metallic smell of blood and bile grew stronger. The Veil was warped in places, like a transparent silk twisted too many times on itself.

The sound of muttering drew them around a corner. Standing with his face to the wall was a soldier in damaged armour. 

“Who are you?” Yin called, loud and clear. The soldier flinched, but continued talking into the wall. Solas dared venture closer, head cocked as he listened. Bull hefted his axe uncomfortably.

“Sounds like demon shit to me,” he said. Solas nodded curtly.

“I believe his mind was touched by one,” he said. As if to punctuate his statement, the man burst into flame. “That is probably for the best.” They quickly made their way away from the man. 

“Those look like cells up ahead,” Dorian said, nodding toward a line of heavy doors in an open corridor. Most were wide open. “Shall we split up? Perhaps we’ll find something of use.” They all spread out, but Dorian lingered at Yin’s side.

“I don’t think she’s here,” Yin said, watching the others draw away. 

“And I don’t want to think about what may have happened to her,” Dorian said. Yin looked at him, hoping to draw some strength from his face. It helped, a little, especially when Dorian’s hand brushed lightly along his own as he went off in his own direction. Yin sighed and entered one of the cells. There were various tools inside. Mostly what looked like Templar lyrium kits, though none of the vials were filled with blue liquid. It was all red. He shivered and went back outside.

They searched the massive keep for a while, occasionally discovering a stray man driven mad by whatever had happened there. The farther they went, the less optimistic they became of finding Maordrid unscathed. 

“Hey, fellas, I think I found something!” Bull called, voice echoing from inside a room. They all rushed toward his voice, stopping at the entrance of a particularly foul-smelling cell. The Qunari emerged carrying a piece of canvas bearing what appeared to be armour. Solas stepped forward and lifted up a pair of greaves. His eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“These are hers,” he confirmed, setting them down and picking up the silverite-backed gauntlets. 

Yin noticed blood on the inside of the greaves and cloak. “She fought her way out without putting any of it on,” Yin realised.

“There’s no way she didn’t get out of here unwounded. Did you see how many dead men there are?” Dorian was right, but no one wanted to agree aloud. “If she was captured again there’s no way of knowing where they’ll be taking her next.”

“Or if they’ll even keep her alive,” Bull said. “She may be part of the inner circle with a lotta valuable information, but I think after a slaughter like this they won’t risk it happening again.”

“Your call, Yin,” Dorian said. He didn’t know what to do. It was her life they were talking about, but Yin hadn’t even thought about the mess there at Therinfal. Half of him wanted to search for the woman that had put her life on the line for his sister, a woman Maori didn’t even know. The other half was looking at the graveyard around them and whispering no.

“We’ll send the agents that came with you from Skyhold to search the area around the keep. But I think we should move somewhere safe, away from this place. It’s clearly unstable and I don’t want to risk anyone getting possessed or hurt staying too long here,” he decided. “Cole?” The spirit boy appeared suddenly. “Could you be on the lookout as well? Do…whatever it is you can with your abilities?” He nodded solemnly, but didn’t vanish. The others began to file out slowly, disheartened. Solas remained, eyes flitting across doorways as if expecting her to emerge any second. Yin let his hand drop on his friend’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t lose hope, even if we have to move on for the better of the world.” Solas’ blue eyes wavered before he dropped his gaze.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he murmured. “I will try to keep hope as well. It is all we can do. At least...not all was lost.” Yin lightly touched the remains of her amour held in Solas’ hands.

“Perhaps…if our people yield nothing in their search, we can hold a memorial somewhere,” he said. When Solas didn’t reply, he squeezed his shoulder and walked on. Solas joined him not long after, gently sliding her meagre belongings into his bag. Together they departed the keep and returned to the glade beyond. It was there that they set up camp for one night, staking out with dwindling hope. Come morning they would return to Skyhold, for the call of duty to the rest of the world could not be delayed much longer.

  



	37. The Old Dwarf and the Siren

“What in Andraste’s name is this knife ear doin’ in my barn?” Maordrid peeked an eye open at the disturbance. “Gilna, call the guardsman!” The farmer’s grating voice was enough to rouse her from the shit sleep she’d gotten anyway. Groaning, she surged to her feet and escaped past the farmer as he was looking for the guard. When he realised she’d slipped out, he cursed after her, but fortunately didn’t try to give chase. There, across a field of barley was a small village. The shouts of the farmer and the guardsman faded into the distance as she melded in with the village. 

Unfortunately, blending proved to be difficult with her current soiled and ruined garb. She quickly dropped behind the buildings and scoped out the area. From a nearby clothesline she acquired a well-loved grey woollen cloak, this time avoiding detection from the woman busy hanging her laundry. She undid her braid as well and let her hair fall loosely over her ears. Maori came upon a crude village square set with a few wagons displaying limited wares. Of the four available, only one had a crowd that she took full advantage of.

A very fat human stood behind a lopsided table bartering with a couple over several misshapen pies. Maordrid allowed the edge of her cloak to fall over a plain loaf of bread. As she ‘observed’ the miscellaneous sad pastries, her left hand darted out and snatched the bread, tucking it into her waistband. Then she backed away, nodding to the vendor and wandering off quickly. It would only be a matter of time before someone took notice of her ears.

Maordrid was on her way over to a merchant selling bundles of herbs and tonics when something snagged her eye sitting displayed at a covered booth. A whole collection of carved pipes, stone and wood, and even a couple glass ones. She was drawn to them like a helpless moth, eyes wide. The nostalgia sitting on the old carver’s bench was overwhelming as she picked up a wooden pipe with a stem in the shape of a dragon’s head. Its sinewy body formed the rest of the pipe with a tail curling around the rim of the bowl. The piece was lacquered a beautiful garnet colour.

“You know a good pipe when you see one, don’t you, lass.” Her eyes found the vendor, an old wrinkly dwarf sitting off to the side, bundled up in layers against the cold of the morning. He was busy carving away at another piece, a fleur pipe by the looks of it. And just as it was called, he seemed to be making it into a lily. Maordrid chuckled as she picked up one that had an entire scene carved into it depicting a series of dwarves drinking and dancing. It was worse that the carver was a dwarf himself, as the last company she had smoked with had been dwarves. 

“When I was young I was more or less adopted by a band of dwarves,” she laughed. Something like an emotional knot worked its way into her throat. _Durol, Vardra, Dairand, Adewern,_ and _Grandda_ had been their names. “We all hated each other at first. Me, an elf, and them a bunch of grumpy dwarves. Especially Grandda—he hissed and spat at me as much as a cat. To be fair, I was insufferable as a youth. They set me right, though. The first thing we bonded over was Grandda’s love for smoking Fade-touched elfroot. Claimed it made him dream. We would smoke and talk through the night about our dreams. In the end, it didn’t matter if he was lying about having them.” The old carver leaned forward, eyeing her critically.

“You just pullin’ my hearstrings, lass? A pretty thing like you hangin’ ‘round my kin?” He thumbed the side of his nose and sat back, still eyeing her from beneath a bushy brow. “How old are you, if ya don’t mind me asking?” She smiled and set the pipe down.

“Those dwarves died millennia ago. I miss them like it was yesterday,” she said, not caring to hide the truth this time. The dwarf stuck a finger in his ear and twisted it around.

“Y’know, a year ago I woulda called complete bullshit on your story. But an elf came through here once—a bald fellow travelling alone. Seemed a bit confused, really. But he spoke like yas, all wistful of the past. Whatsit with me attractin’ the type?” the dwarf grumbled something and reached underneath the table, digging around. The timeline and the description fit a certain someone she knew. _Small world_ , she thought as the dwarf carefully set a case on top of the table. 

“Did he buy anything?” she asked but the fellow shook his head.

“We swapped a few stories. He mostly told me things I didn’t know ‘bout the Stone…I told him about the time I fought in the Fifth Blight. I met the Hero of Ferelden, I did. Scary lady, that one. She was an elf, too,” he said. “I ended up sending him on his way with a little carved wolf he took a liking to.” Maordrid smiled. She adored the little man already. There was something about dwarves that had always endeared her to them. Her refusal to go into the Deep Roads to kill and steal from the Children of the Stone during the reign of the Evanuris, however, had earned her no favours with them. 

The carver hemmed and hawed as he sifted through the case’s contents until finally he removed a white pipe. The piece was the most intricate she’d seen of his work, with flowing interlapping designs that appeared to mimic a stormy sea. Like the first one she’d seen, a water serpent—or perhaps a water dragon of some kind—formed the stem. 

“This one I made on my way through the Boeric Ocean. Inspiration took hold and…well, the longer you look at it the more you see. The way I was possessed to make it ‘minds me a lotta how people describe dreamin’,” he said as he handed it over to her. “’Tis yours, lass. You remind me of them sirens up north in those waters.” She took it reverently, eyes threatening tears. “Don’t you cry, girl. You don’t seem like the type to do that. Stop it.”

“I told you I had a way with dwarves,” she said, sniffing back her emotions. The dwarf finally cracked a smile and chuckled.

“Bah, and I suppose I fell for it. I hope you make some more dwarf friends, lass,” he said, leaning back into his chair.

“And I hope you meet more elves with better stories,” she said with a deep bow. The old man bah’d at her again and waved her off, content to leave it at that.

When the the town guards finally caught up with her and chased her out of town, her spirit remained undamped, whisking off into the safety of some trees where she smoked and ate her bread in peace.

\---------------------------------------------

A day passed before Maordrid found herself in the next town and figured out where she was in relation to Skyhold. It seemed to have been spit onto the map out of nowhere, south of where Lothering used to be and just shy of where the Blight had tainted the lands. Its primary source of wealth came from hunters and truffle-seekers. The people didn’t seem to mind her being there, despite the town being comprised of perhaps only fifty people. She’d seen Dalish clans larger than Little Lothering, as they proudly called it.

In the town’s shabby tavern-inn hybrid, she learned that Skyhold was nearly a month’s travel by foot from there—perhaps two or three days if she flew hard. But even knowing that, she hesitated, wondering if she should return to the others or try to get in contact with another node of the Elu’bel network. Maordrid bartered for one night in the inn after going out and foraging in the forest for some truffles. The innkeeper took the payment and left her alone but didn’t offer her a warm meal.

She set out early the next morning in form of a raven, seeking out an Inquisition camp. Fortunately, the organisation was growing bigger and bases were popping up everywhere. Spying in form of an animal gave one a massive advantage over a world ignorant of magic. Back in the height of the Elven Empire, everyone had been wary of animals. Today, Maordrid simply perched upon the post of a tent and honed in on the conversation around her. It was not long that talk of the new Inquisitor came up. She learned that Yin and several others had gone riding to a place called Therinfal Redoubt—the name of the keep where she’d been imprisoned, she realised—and apparently had fought off several hundred red templars, which was clearly an embellishment. Rumour had it that they were returning to Skyhold and then setting out again, this time to the far west. Someone mentioned the Champion of Kirkwall had been spotted somewhere. For her, that was enough of a heading. She had an idea of what part of the timeline they had entered. Every fibre in her wanted desperately to go to them and let them know she was alive, but there were things she could take care of in the false cloak of death.

And so Maordrid stuck around long enough as a bird until an unwitting scout set down his lunch. She hopped down and took a few bites of cheese, stealing the hunk of bread when he returned and realised she was in his food. Then she was off on a journey to the western reaches of southern Thedas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all still enjoying this and I haven't lost anyone. It's a slow build, I know. I'm not super sorry 'cause I love slow builds.


	38. A Dalish Tuning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future has a lot of Dhrui in store. Hopefully you guys like her as much I as I do.

  


When they returned to Skyhold, a warm welcome awaited them. Josephine had prepared a lovely feast to honour the arrival of the other Lavellan. Yin was ecstatic to have his sister meet everyone else. Dhrui was much more Dalish than he was, but just as shameless in her ways. She had learned quickly of Solas’ dislike of the Dalish and loved to antagonise him despite Yin’s constant protests that she refrain. Especially since the last two weeks had been tough with no sign of Maordrid. He became concerned with how easily she’d gotten on with Blackwall and Sera within those early days, and even when he tried introducing her to Leliana, Vivienne, and Josephine it had been like pulling teeth to get her to hold still. She had wandered off in the middle of Leliana’s introduction toward the Warden and the rogue. When she met Cullen she tried to kiss his hand, much to his blushing horror. When Varric told her that Curly was a chaste, proper Chantry gentleman, she backed off and went hunting Blackwall for his beard.

In short, Dhrui was a handful, but eventually calmed down after the massive over-stimulus of being in a castle wore off some. 

“I wonder what Maori would think of her right now,” Dorian said as he and Yin leaned over the banister in the library. Below, Dhrui was sitting on the edge of Solas’ desk while the poor mage was attempting to organise things he was going to take on their journey to the Western Approach. 

“Dhrui’s not always like this. It’s just her way of seeing where everyone’s boundaries are,” Yin said. 

“At least she doesn’t go around offering to sleep with everyone like her brother,” Dorian chuckled. Yin raised his eyebrows, still watching his sister.

“She’s a little pickier than I am, but I think she’s already tried going after a few targets. Poor Cullen didn’t know how to react,” he said, “And in my defense, I haven’t done that in a while!” 

“Probably because you ran out of people to ask,” Dorian teased. Yin rolled his eyes. 

“No, it’s because _you_ never gave me an answer!” Dorian blushed and hastily looked away. “Yeah, I thought so.” Part of him was a little disappointed that Dorian refrained from answering, but the other part was thrilled at the prospect of a chase. There hadn’t been another kiss like the one in Redcliffe, but Yin was determined.

“Is there quite literally anyone else in this sprawling keep that you could bother? Sera, perhaps?” They looked in unison at the duo below. Solas was calm, but Yin could see a tension to his shoulders as Dhrui wound him tighter and tighter. 

“I was just drawn to your mysterious veneer, Messere Solas,” Dhrui said, leaning dangerously close to his face. Solas, wisely, did not react. “I want to hear you speak Elvhen in that sultry voice of yours.”

“Sultry—? What—?” He slammed a journal shut and shoved it into his bag. Then he glared up at Dorian and Yin who quickly ducked out of view. “If I do, will you leave me in peace? We have very little time to pack before we leave again.” 

“I swear on all that is good that I’ll stop being annoying,” Dhrui said. Solas took a deep breath. 

“What do you want to hear?” 

“Oooh, I get to choose?” There was a long, painful pause. “Okay! Well, I heard the bard in the tavern singing a song when we first got here. _I Am the One_ , but she was singing it in common. Isn’t it an elven song?” 

“…Yes,” came the flat reply. 

“You don’t have to _sing_ it. I just want to hear your pretty voice! Do you know Elvhen well?” Yin could _feel_ Solas’ eyes roll. “C’mon, please? You told me on the way here that the Dalish are ignorant—so teach me!” 

“Ouch, got him there,” Dorian whispered, sharing a childish giggle with Yin.

“Very well. Can you write the lyrics down? I’m afraid I don’t know them by heart.” The faint scritch-scratching of a quill reached their ears and during that time, Dorian and Yin crept back up to the edge. Solas was picking the parchment up and looking it over. “ _Heruamin lotirien, alai uethri maeria. Halurocon yalei nam bahna. Dolin nereba maome._ ” He paused and looked at Dhrui who gestured expectantly for him to continue. “ _Ame amin, halai lothi amin. Aloamin Heruamin…”_ Solas stopped and dropped the paper back on the desk, clearly fed up. 

“That was lovely,” Dhrui said with a charming smile, but Yin knew it was the evil-schemer grin. “ _You’re_ lovely.” The saucy Lavellan hopped down off his desk, bowed respectfully, and then traipsed out of the rotunda as if nothing had happened. Solas planted a hand on his forehead and this time when he looked up at them, they didn’t move.

“Please tell me she won’t be this insufferable on the journey?” he asked. Yin applauded him.

“Nope! You just passed her test, I think. I told her a lot about you in our letters back and forth. She probably wanted to see if you were the illustrious mage I bragged about,” Yin said. 

“Did I tell you I both loathe and respect you, Inquisitor?” 

“I love you too, Solas.” The apostate shook his head and gathered his things before padding out of the room without a backward glance. When he turned to Dorian, the mage’s lips were pressed together as if he were trying hard not to laugh. The hair on the back of Yin’s neck rose and before he could react, a mass of powdery, freezing snow dropped onto his head. 

“Traitor,” Yin hissed to Dorian.

“Mmkay, _now_ I’m done,” Dhrui said from behind him. She leaned up against the rail with her arms crossed, looking between them. “You think I pushed them all too far?” 

“It was probably a little poorly timed,” Yin said with a wince. “We still haven’t even decided what to do as a memorial. She wasn’t Dalish, so that’s out of the question.”

“You know, besides saving my skin, how was she?” Dhrui asked. Yin and Dorian exchanged a look.

“Intense at times. You could never really tell if she was about to call you a child or partake in shenanigans. We never really had time to cut loose together, though,” Yin said. “And that whole…protecting everyone? Gods, she was more effective than an actual shield. A few of us owe her.”

“I almost got her to drink wine with me back in Haven,” Dorian remarked. “I hope that if she’s alive she comes back before I drink all of the Orlesian Peach that’s there in the basement.”

“You know, Solas told me she played the lute. Decently, too. Did you know that?” Yin said to him. 

“That little shit. See, I knew there was more to her,” Dorian said. Yin sighed. He had been doing better lately, avoiding her memory. In a way it wracked him with guilt, since everyone else was so obviously still mourning.

“I don’t know who’s going to teach me anymore. I suppose I could just train with Solas from now on,” he said. “Thanks, sister.” Dhrui blinked with an innocent smile.

“For what?” she asked.

“It’s nice to remember the good things. How easy it is to get stuck in that bog of hoping she didn’t suffer or…” Yin cut off, not wanting to say  dying alone and scared.

“Exactly, so don’t think about it,” Dorian said, putting his hands on his shoulders. Yin nodded.

“Let’s face the world with the mind that she’s still out there,” Dhrui said. “And if she comes back to us we can celebrate, no?”

“Hopefully it won’t be during another bloody catastrophe,” Yin said. Dhrui smacked him on the back.

“So optimistic, my brother,” she said, nodding appreciatively at Dorian. “Well. Dear Solas was right. We should be packing. Damn, Raj is going to be so furious. Both his siblings are travelling and he’s not!” Dhrui saluted them both and disappeared back down the side passage, leaving them the only ones in the rotunda. After a moment of defusing their brains, the two parted ways. 


	39. Champion of June

Days passed quickly to Maordrid. Each day she touched down in an Inquisition camp to gather information, keeping tabs on the Inquisitor’s movements. They seemed to be going fast enough that she would be crossing the Dales at the same time as they were reaching them. She planned on visiting yet another Elu’bel hideout where she hoped an old sentinel colleague would be. If Yin was going to meet the Champion in the Western Approach, that meant Adamant would be the next major event. She firmly believed that the Nightmare demon had somehow been responsible for her deadly dreams. And for which, she had plans.

The first night on the Dales, Maordrid caught up with them. They’d made camp in the safety of a copse of trees and were sitting around talking about the history of the Dales. She was happy to see that Dhrui had tagged along with them and seemed to have found her place comfortably. Both her and Yin were enraptured in some epic retelling of a battle Solas had seen—in the Fade—while Blackwall sat next to Dhrui sharpening his sword. Varric was writing in a notebook. They looked…healthy and content. What caught her eye was Dorian lounging on the outside of the circle reading her transcript. She wondered if he believed anything in the pages she had marked, and if he did, what was on his mind. It scared her, a little. 

“Hidden high in trembling trees. Listening wistfully, lingering near. No one sees and sometimes it hurts.” She saw Cole appear next to Dhrui, staring into the fire with his hands on his knees. 

“What are you listening to now, _falon_?” she asked as Solas paused to Cole’s interruption.

“The birds of the Dales,” the spirit said, sounding confused. “They’re very lonely. You can join us if you like, we won’t hurt you.” Maordrid panicked, realising he was talking to her. To her surprise, no one was looking around. They likely didn’t take him seriously. 

Except Dorian. He looked up, straight at her. She turned and stepped off her branch, gliding away from the camp.

_Idiot. You’re going to have to talk to Cole about that,_ she thought as she left the copse. 

The next time she stopped, it was in Verchiel. It was in the wee hours of the morning that she crested over its walls and walked as an elf for the first time in far too long. Her balance was quite off when she took her first step and she was sure to the few early-risers that she looked intoxicated. She raised her hood against curious eyes and made her way through the clean streets, trying to remember the way to Tahiel’s villa. After getting lost and running into several dead ends, she ended up at a small plaza with a pleasure garden in the middle. The place was familiar, and as her eyes tiredly wandered the scene, she recognised a symbol on the breast of an owl statue sitting outside of the doors to a villa. Of the two flanking the door, only one bore an etched amulet around its neck of a little flame. Veilfire.

Maordrid walked into the cover of the garden where she shifted back into a bird and flapped up to third level window. All of the windows were higher up so that the only ones able to see in would be those with intention. She tapped on the window with her beak three times and then waited, listening. No movement. She did it again and again, then moved on to another window on the other side of the villa. Inside, she saw a familiar golden-haired man sitting at a desk. She tapped at the window inconsistently until the elf on the other side of the glass looked up with murder in his eyes. He rose from his desk and strode over, throwing the window open.

“Bloody bird,” he said, shooing at her. Maordrid hopped off the sill, dropping down only to circle back up and dart through the window as he was closing it. Tahiel shouted in surprise as she passed through and landed on a chaise, dispelling her form. “I should have known. Could you have gotten my attention in a less disruptive way, Yrja?” She picked up one of her feet and rubbed it gingerly. The toenails were growing back but the tissue was still tender.

“I considered knocking on the door but I didn’t think that it would be wise for witnesses to see a grubby elf entering an upstanding abode,” she said. 

“I suppose. You reek,” he said. “Bathe first, then we will speak.” She rose and followed him out of his office where he directed her to the bathing chamber. There was a copper tub and a small water pump installed in a corner. “Every day I miss the luxuries of Elvhenan,” he said, sighing. “If there was anything good that came of the Evanuris it was June’s tuneable baths.” With that, he shut the door. Maordrid spent the next several minutes pumping water into a bucket and relaying it back and forth to the tub. She inscribed a heating rune on the inside and waited until it was visibly steaming to slip into it. The pure euphoria she experienced being submerged in the water was one she wished she could relish in all day. But that ever-present weight of guilt hastened her bath to a quick washing of her hair and sensitive parts. She wrapped up in a towel and went for her clothes, only to find them missing. Someone must have come in while she was underwater. When she opened the door a folded pile of clothes were sitting in front of it. They were a simple white shirt and archer’s pants that were loose in all but the calves and ankles, rendering them rather comfortable. The shirt hung a little too loosely on her frame but which Tahiel had thoughtfully provided a harness to secure it with. 

Maordrid returned to his study where he awaited her reading reports. 

“I always thought our organisation immune to confusion and hiccups in communication,” he said without looking up, “but here it has finally happened. It seems as though no one can truly confirm if you are living or dead.” He finally looked at her. Half of his face was scarred from where Falon’din—his former master—had tried to remove June’s vallaslin from his skin after winning him. Tahiel had championed in an arena for June for some petty matter and ended up a slave to Falon’din as his failure. “An agent at Skyhold sent a letter of concern out recently. She worried that after the destruction of Haven you had perished.” She knew exactly who it was.

“We will need to have her replaced. I told her to wait two months and her _worry_ won over? She could have upset my entire operation!” Maordrid fumed. Tahiel made a calming motion with his palm.

“Do not be so hasty. Her letter only asked that someone send an Elu’bel out into the field to search for you. She was the only one who knew of your whereabouts,” he raised the piece of paper, “The Inquisitor believes you dead. She said some time ago they sent out to a place where Fen’harel had apparently thought you were being held and found nothing. They plan on holding some sort of memorial for you at some point.” Maordrid sat slowly on a chair. “Interesting that he would be so concerned for your wellbeing to convince the Inquisition to diverge from their quest.”

“I’ve ensconced in the upper circle,” she said. “They’ve come to trust and…apparently like me.” She wasn’t about to tell Tahiel that her and Solas had become…closer than was necessary.

“And still he believes himself a step ahead of all others?” Tahiel mused.

“I’ve given him no reason to suspect me. I’m just another apostate who learned her skills through the Fade. Just like him.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“I doubt he will ever guess that you travelled through time to stop him,” he said as if to test the truth. She rolled her eyes. “I apologise, Commander. I did not mean for this to come across as some kind of interrogation. You have come to me because you are in need of aid or else you would not have come here.” It was her turn to make a soothing motion.

“You are right to voice your concerns, considering how much is on the line,” she offered, in an appeal to his ego. “I have flown a long way from eastern Ferelden. I spent some time under the interrogation of Raleigh Samson, ex-templar and now General to Corypheus.” Tahiel paled and straightened in an attempt to retain his stoic mask. “The Inquisitor rides to the west of Orlais where he will learn of Grey Warden schemes to raise a demon army. They will physically enter the Fade and be forced to confront a powerful demon there. I come to you seeking knowledge or otherwise to help me destroy that creature.” 

“My report failed to mention the Wardens or a demon army,” he said. “Again, perhaps my fault for not pressing for more information. I could have prepared something for you, but as of now, I fear I have nothing here. But if you can make a detour to Val Royeaux, Elgalas has most of my more powerful contraptions.” Her heart dropped considerably. If she took that journey she would miss the meeting at the Western Approach, but if she didn’t go to Val Royeaux, there would be losses later on that she could have prevented. “I may have some spare armour your size lying around. Please take some, I am not used to seeing you without it. It is making me uncomfortable.” 

“I feel naked without it,” she said and Tahiel, prudish, golden-haired Tahiel blushed. 

“Follow me.” He swept out of the study and led her down elaborately carved marble stairs. She’d quite forgotten the layout of this place. It had been in the Elu’bel’s possession for many years now and yet due to its location no one was ever willing to stay there. Tahiel had always been a private person, so she was not surprised that he had taken up residence there instead of in Val Royeaux. The only issue with the place that she saw was that the decor was severely outdated. If any real Orlesian stepped inside, they’d gossip about how out of style it was, turn it into a rumour, and quite possibly expose them through that. She made note to remind someone to take care of that, filing it away as they came upon the vault that gave the place value. The initial owner had been a wealthy dwarf in the banking business that had built his vault with the exact schematics used in the Orlesian Bank. Which, of course, was illegal. Tahiel opened it through solving a series of runic puzzles that randomised each time it was locked. Fortunately, with a patron such as June came the benefits of seeing patterns and the smallest utmost components of the world around them as well as the ability to craft things that had been lost to the ages. It made Tahiel an invaluable asset. 

Inside he gestured indifferently to the contents within. 

“The gear here is the bare minimum enchanted. Projects I never quite finished, so you may want to commission a full set later. I will be able to provide you with a better set once I return to Val Royeaux some weeks from now, if it is to your liking,” he sniffed, turning his head away from her, “I know you favoured your arcanist blacksmith Phaestus. You can’t get much pickier than that.” 

“Yes, but he’s gone now. You’ve provided me with beautiful sets too, Tahiel,” she said as she perused a low-profile set of leather armour.

“Since when did you even consider leather?” Tahiel scoffed. “There’s plenty of good light-plate over there—”

“You know I want to. But if I show up to the Inquisition in full ancient Elvhen regalia, they’ll question it. Remember when we all followed Solas’ lead dressing as commoners? They believed and trusted us. That same tactic works well even today,” she said as she removed a leather pteruges and began putting it on. Tahiel walked over with a couple of spaulders and simple leather breastplate, shoving them into her hands. She rolled her eyes and slid into the chest, allowing him to help her with the shoulders. He gave her a belt with a few utility pouches attached and fitted her with another gorget. 

“Helm?” he asked, procuring one with a face like a demon’s. She laughed and shook her head.

“There will be an event, I think in the future. Perhaps I will commission you then for something and you can go wild,” she said. His eyes lit up excitedly, but he cleared his throat and his face of any emotion. 

“Void, you look like a highwayman from Tevinter,” he said, looking somehow disgusted and impressed as she wrapped her shoulders in the old woolen cloak she had stolen. “Shall we rough you up a bit? Tear the cloak, rub some dirt into the threads. Perhaps add some scuff to the leather, too.” She just nodded and allowed him to work, positioning herself near his worktable.

“I’ve just thought of something,” she said as he made small incinerations in the leather. “Perhaps more important than any sort of armour.”

“Yes?” he pressed. 

“The Mark that Yin Lavellan possesses is killing him slowly. Eventually he will lose that arm—” 

“So build him a prosthetic,” Tahiel finished. 

“Experiment. I am not entirely sure when I will tell the Inquisitor the truth of my mission, but if all goes well, I will likely request that you join me at Skyhold so that you may take direct measurements and whatnot. It may still be a ways off, but keep it in mind,” she said. 

“Does the Inquisition not have their own enchanters or arcanists? Are they not a great organisation?” he asked. She mulled it over, feeling like there had been someone, but without her notes she couldn’t remember.

“Regardless of who they have, they do not have ancient Elvhen technology—nonetheless a man who was trained by June in the height of Arlathan,” she said. He shrugged. 

“But is it wise to give something so powerful to the Inquisition?” he asked. She knew most of the agents had not received the detailed report, which was exactly how she wanted it. There was always that possibility that nothing worked out and keeping some information to herself was necessary.

“It is hard to say until we know for certain what direction the Inquisitor chooses to take. If I cannot attain the focus before the time that Solas reportedly left the Inquisition in the other timeline, then it may force my hand and potentially paint me as the enemy. If we can gain access to the Eluvians then many of our problems will be solved.” Tahiel nodded as he frayed the ends of the wool cloak she wore. “Regardless, I cannot see Inquisitor Lavellan taking an unfavourable path; a prosthetic won’t hurt.” Tahiel hummed, having her turn this way and that as he examined her armour.

“You said that Fen’harel has come to trust you. Do you think he might turn against you should you escape with his focus?” he asked. 

“I don’t know the answer to that,” she said. “He killed Felassan—who is to say he won’t kill me, despite all that we’ve gone through?”

“Fair point. You tread dark waters, Yrja. Be careful not to lose sight of the shore.” He scooted away to observe his work, then nodded. “That should do. You look like you’ve been on the road. Will you be flying to Val Royeaux—that is, if you are going?” She rolled her shoulders and kneaded the muscle at the junction of her neck.

“My arms are quite sore. That’s the farthest I’ve flown in a long time,” she said. “I don’t know if I could make it across the water.” Tahiel pretended to think, tapping his chin.

“I could ride with you to the nearest port and arrange passage across. I know a captain that owes me a favour,” he said and at her questioning look, his face became defensive, “Very well, I built him something for his ship to protect it against pirates. In exchange, he smuggles materials for me without charge.”

“You worry about a prosthetic while giving a random mortal a weapon for his ship? Tahiel!” she admonished. 

“He was a slave from Tevinter that clawed his way to freedom,” he muttered. She backed off, feeling a fool and Tahiel relaxed some. She should have been happy. The sentinel had been one of the last to warm up to the people born after the Veil. He’d even often times been cruel, using them to augment projects or to experiment. That was, of course, until he fell in love with one of them and realised _they_ could be people, too. His wife had been Rivaini—this being hundreds of years ago—taken slave in Tevinter, hence his soft spot for slaves. She thought that Tahiel had never quite gotten over Esedra’s death, or their child’s. Perhaps he lived in a constant state of denial, as death had been such a rarity in Elvhenan. Its permanence was a concept many of her kind had had a hard time comprehending. She was no stranger to grief, but she wouldn’t try to pretend she knew his.

She realised they both had withdrawn into their own heads. Maordrid adjusted her new gear awkwardly in the silence which seemed to jar him from his thoughts.

“Give me some time to gather a few things and then we’ll go,” he said quietly, then got up and left quickly. She took his spot on the stool with a lengthy exhale, contemplating many things, chuckling to herself and staring up at the ceiling as she did. _We had all the time and now it seems we cannot get enough._ The elf tapped her fingers on the surface of the workbench, then with a weary sigh, lifted herself back to her feet to venture once more into the world above.

  



	40. A Hero, a Champion, and a Herald walk into a...

  


It was just outside of the Dales that a messenger found them with news that Hawke would be waiting with the Warden just a day north of Val Firmin. How the crafty woman had managed to get ahead of them, Yin would have to ask, because by his estimations she should only have been just reaching the Dales from Crestwood. Either way, he was relieved that she had been successful in convincing him to meet them in the west. 

However, when they _did_ meet up with Hawke, she was alone. She seemed slightly miffed when they joined her to boot.

“Where is he?” Yin asked, scanning the surrounding wilds for her company. 

“Hiding, because he seems to think they’ll find him all the way out here in quite frankly, _fucking nowhere_ ,” she said as she snagged his sleeve and pulled him into the awaiting forest. The others followed at a distance, either too starstruck by the Champion or afraid she might tackle them as she had to him. Apparently word had gotten around of their first meeting. 

“Who is ‘they’?” he asked as she pulled open a compass and took a sharp right through a wall of vines—burning them out of the way, of course.

“Other Wardens, I guess. Think it has to do with whatever’s going on with Corypheus,” she said as they continued through the thicket. 

“Has he told you anything?” he asked. She glanced back at him long enough for him to see her deadpan expression.

“No, we travelled separately, if you can believe that! He ensured we were _at least_ two hours apart the entire way here. You know how awful it is to travel alone?” 

“Yeah. I travelled alone to the Conclave,” he said. She guffawed.

“Bet if you had someone to go with you wouldn’t have ended up with that thing in your hand, huh?” she said. “Friends are usually pretty good at warning you against your own stupidity. Except Varric, he always just wanted ideas for a book.” Yin agreed silently as they emerged into a small clearing with what looked to be the remains of an old fort in the middle. There wasn’t much left, save for a couple of broken columns and half a wall with a faded mural on it. “Alistair, it’s us! Come out…! You grumpy mabari,” she said, the last part growl-mumbled. A crow called somewhere in the forest, but then Yin’s ears picked up the sound of boots treading across detritus. A golden-haired man appeared around the wall looking wary. 

“ _Aneth ara,_ Warden Alistair,” Yin said, bowing, but keeping his eyes on the Warden. Something like sadness wrinkled the corners of his eyes, but he returned the bow slightly.

“ _Andaran atishan,_ Inquisitor. I’m glad you made it soundly,” he said. Yin blinked.

“You speak Elvhen?” he asked.

“What little I do know is thanks to Novferen,” Alistair said. 

“I hear you know a bit about Corypheus, my current problem,” Yin said, deciding to cut niceties short. Alistair didn’t seem to mind. “All the Wardens seem to be disappearing. Even my friend Blackwall wasn’t aware.” Alistair turned to the black-bearded Warden in their midst, looking surprised.

“Blackwall? My friend Duncan spoke of you,” he said. Blackwall looked equally surprised, perhaps a little shocked.

“Oh yeah, Duncan? Good man,” he said curtly, then engaged Solas in some small talk as if intimidated by Alistair. Yin exchanged confused glances with Alistair before shrugging and turning away from them again.

“So, do you think Corypheus appearing has anything to do with your, uh, people going missing?” Yin asked, wanting to get out of the gnat-infested forest quickly.

“I think so,” Alistair said. “When Hawke killed him, the Wardens thought the matter resolved. But Archdemons don’t die from simple injury, so I thought maybe Corypheus might have the same power. My investigation into it has been less than satisfying. All hints, no proof. Then everyone started hearing the Calling.”

“Sooo…you failed to mention that part. Bad, right?” Hawke said, looking irritated. Alistair avoided looking at her. Clearly they hadn’t been getting along.

“Wardens like their secrets. Although this one is dangerous. Novferen never cared to keep our secrets from our friends, but I try to hold some of the oaths I swore,” he said. “In short, the Calling is what alerts us Wardens to the start of another Blight. We have bad dreams, hear a very unpleasant song, then…we disappear into the Deep Roads. _In death, in sacrifice._ ”

“Great, so all the Wardens think they’re dying,” Hawke said and Alistair nodded, much to their horror.

“And I think Corypheus is at the heart of it,” he said. “If we all die, then who will stop the next Blight? Is that Corypheus’ goal—to somehow start another Blight? It’s hard to tell what he intends.” 

“They’re desperate, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Perhaps them dying isn’t what he wants immediately—he wants _them_. Just as he wanted the mages and how he now has the templars,” Hawke realised. Yin was rather impressed, as he certainly hadn’t put that all together quickly. 

“Which means that they’re making one last, desperate attack…on something. Darkspawn?” Yin wondered. Alistair’s face became grim as he nodded.

“Warden-Commander Clarel doesn’t want another Blight like the last. None of us do, but she proposed some drastic preemptive moves—blood magic and such—before we all die. I protested loudly and Clarel sent guards,” he spread his hands, “and here I am. The Wardens are gathering in the Western Approach, which is why I agreed to meet you on your way there. They’re going to some old Tevinter ritual tower—I’m going to investigate. I could use your help.”

“We’re definitely of similar thinking,” Yin said, “But first, we should get out of this bloody forest.” They all agreed and returned to their horses just off the road. Alistair emerged minutes later with his own black horse that he reined up to join Yin and Hawke at the front. 

For some time, they all talked more about Clarel, the Calling, and Corypheus. At first, Alistair seemed to hold to his principle of keeping those oaths of his, but after some careful goading, he opened up a little, remarking that Novferen, wherever she was, was laughing at him. Normally she was the quiet one and he was the loud one. Eventually, Yin’s curiosity of the famed Hero of Ferelden got the better of him and he asked where she was at present, fully intending for the conversation to take on a lighter tone. Unfortunately, the question seemed to be a touchy subject. Alistair didn’t answer for a good while but Yin realised he must have been searching for the right words. Yin had heard stories of Alistair’s goofy nature and had thought they might be similar in that regard, but the man seemed world-worn. Stories didn’t age like the people that comprised them. 

“Nov left before all of this. Personal mission,” he said with some visible pain.

“The stories are never clear,” Yin said at another one of his pauses. “Some said she was heartless and independent while others said she…well, that she loved you.” Alistair laughed bitterly. “Sorry, I’m a sucker for a love story. I’m Antivan.” 

“You don’t have to explain that to anyone, Charmer, it’s pretty obvious,” Varric said to his diagonal-right. Yin flicked a pebble at him.

“It’s fine, I knew an Antivan myself. Novferen is an unpredictable creature,” Alistair said once he had mustered the right words. “Some days she seemed like the most untouchable thing in the world. Really, she was. She’s a brilliant fighter, a strategist…a leader. But Maker, could she be cruel. Her and Morrigan seemed cut from the same cloth. I think she brought the Witch of the Wilds herself near tears once or twice. I definitely considered breaking off a couple of times, but…” He trailed off, almost realising where he was.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Yin cut in, although the Antivan part of him _screamed_ for details. Alistair gave him a half-smile.

“I enjoy talking about her, if you can believe it,” he chuckled. “She taught me a lot. Not to trust steadfastly, how to depend on oneself, not to take anything for truth even if you’ve seen it with your own eyes. We were both young and foolish, but she seemed at least a decade ahead. Maybe that was part of her background, being Dalish and all, then her people trying to cart her off to a Circle.” The Warden’s grim mask cracked momentarily and Yin could see something like mirth peeking through the cracks. “But there were times where she’d disappear from camp and no one could find her. Morrigan knew her best, but even she couldn’t find her. Turns out, she went hunting for nugs any time she got stressed. First time I found her, she was feeding a horde of them.” Yin, Hawke, and Varric laughed, and after a second even Alistair cracked a smile.

“Leliana would love that,” Yin said, still laughing. 

“She would, if she knew. Nov threatened to cut my throat if I told anyone and would blame it on a rogue darkspawn. Definitely top-secret Grey Warden business,” he said, smiling fondly. “You know, she carried a baby nug in her coat pocket for six months before any of us noticed? Even then she somehow convinced everyone else it was just a wild one that _somehow_ got into her clothes while she was sleeping. It was then that I knew she had a heart, she just didn’t know how open up.” 

“Sounds like someone I knew,” Yin said, thinking of Maori. He heard Solas laugh behind him, though he wasn’t sure if it was from his comment or something Blackwall said. “You two became friends though?” Alistair continued to smile, a little brighter and Yin could tell that despite his serious demeanour that he cared for her.

“The best,” he said distantly. “That’s why she’s gone today, searching for a cure to our plight.” He laughed again and looked away. Yin knew what that meant, but said nothing. He felt sad for him. 

“She’s not one to ask for help, is she?” Alistair looked at him, but he found his expression indecipherable.

“Exactly. I’d have gone with her, but…her threats are believable.”

“She cares, then,” Yin said, “Enough to put herself in danger but not someone she values.” Alistair smiled.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he said, relaxing in his saddle. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve talked about anything other than doom and gloom.” Yin looked over at Hawke who hadn’t said anything the entire time. The wild woman, for once, looked rather tame.

“What about you, Vyr?” The Champion started from her thoughts, staring ahead. 

“What about me, Inkspot?” she said dryly. “The love, the life, the friends?” 

“I’m not here to gossip. I just…only if you want to talk,” he amended, sensing reluctance on her part. For a while she didn’t talk—she just rode. Out of all of Varric’s tales, her relationships with the party in Kirkwall seemed…a mess, to put it lightly. Finally, she sighed, looking first to Alistair and then to him. Varric excused himself and dropped to the back of the group, giving them some privacy.

“Well, when Anders blew up the Chantry it was a bit of a surprise,” she started. “At that time, I was more upset that he hadn’t trusted me to help him. He had good motivations, but that poor fool approached it the wrong way. And now he’s in hiding somewhere. I think my friends were more upset with my admission of supporting Anders than they were that I let him go.” 

“Do you regret it?” Yin asked. She shrugged.

“He was right—something had to change and it was taking too long. I don’t know, my stance on it shifts too much,” she said, sounding frustrated.

“What about the others? Where are they?” Yin said, attempting to salvage the conversation. 

“Spread to the wind, really. I was on and off friends with Fenris, so colour me surprised when he offered to come here with me. Told him no, ‘cause I didn’t want him to get hurt. I have a bad habit of that, getting loved ones killed. So, I don’t know where he went. Said he’d be off killing slavers, but he could very easily be following me.” She ruffled her hair, seeming quite uncomfortable.

“Sounds like you’ve got an admirer,” Alistair mused.

“It’s not like that,” she said quickly, “Really. I think he just feels bad that my entire family is dead and that I’m going to off myself if he doesn’t watch close. I mean, the others sure as shit weren’t interested in joining me. Merrill is off helping refugees, which is…honestly quite good, I’m proud of her. Aveline is still holding up Kirkwall herself. You know, and I thought my friendship with Fenris was rocky—it was worse with Isabela. She seemed to like me, we had similar minds, except I never really liked her. I saved her arse from the Arishok and that was that. Did I forget anyone? Questions? Comments?” Yin and Alistair exchanged harried glances, unsure of what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” Yin settled on saying. Hawke’s gaze held a tempest of emotions that dulled and sputtered out after a moment, leaving behind a softened face of scars and lines.

“Y’know, you shouldn’t be. You’re a good man. I’ve just got a lot pent up,” she flashed him a winning smile, then tipped her chin at him, “What about you, Yin? Leave behind any sweeties in your clan? Friends, family?” Yin nodded, but then looked back at Dhrui who was in a discussion with Blackwall and Dorian that Solas was clearly trying to ignore, considering the lewdness of it. Varric was taking notes again, clearly amused by her antics.

“My sister’s back there,” he said. “She has a twin brother, Raj, but he’s dedicated to being full-time Dalish. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s off to be the Clan’s next First.” 

“I’d thought you were Dalish, but I noticed your tattoos are…different than what I’ve seen,” Alistair said. Yin snickered, admiring the shimmering gold ink on the back of his right hand. At night, it glowed faintly, which was—shallowly—his favourite thing about them.

“Dhrui and I always thought since we were the only elves that hadn’t been born and bred in the Lavellan clan that we should have our own _vallaslin._ We took a full year designing something that encompassed all of our gods with a tribute or two to our heritage as Antivan,” he said. “Then we had to convince our Keeper to let us _not_ be traditional. We’re fortunate with how open our clan is. Probably explains why we pick up a couple of elves every Arlathvhen—we’re just too fun!” 

“Yin’s clan is…unique, to say the least,” Solas remarked from behind them. “Very few Dalish are as open-minded.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry for that, my friend,” Yin said. 

“You’ve already apologised, Yin,” Solas said with pride in his voice. “And I am working on overcoming my own prejudices.” 

“The world is fortunate to have a compassionate leader,” Vyr said. “Can’t even imagine what would have happened had Seeker Pentaghast had her way. Say what you will, I am _not_ a good leader.”

“What about the Hero? Do you think she would have taken this position?” Yin wondered. 

“Hard to say. She cares more right now about surviving the taint. But on any other day, maybe. She likes that sort of stuff,” Alistair said.”I don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Don’t be deceived by this bearded lummox. His leadership is better than anything I’ve ever known,” Dorian said, riding up beside him.

“Don’t believe this man, he’s Tevinter,” Yin said, shoving Dorian playfully. Hawke looked at the Altus amusedly. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing Fenris isn’t here. I’d have to banish him from Southern Thedas,” she said. Dorian regarded her innocently. “Friend-ish of mine. Hates Magisters. He has a history as a slave.” 

“Ah, of course. Well, we’re not _all_ cliche evil Tevinters, although it may seem like it at times. Applies to most of them, sadly,” Dorian said.

“Says the man that doesn’t see spirits as anything more than tools without free will,” Solas shot out. Yin groaned internally and put his face into his hands as an argument broke out between the two. 

“Ahhh, reminds me of the old days,” Hawke smirked, leaning back in her saddle to listen. The three of them subsided into silence, listening to the bickering of the other mages. Yin couldn’t wait to get to the desert now. At least then he knew they would all be too hot to argue and would lapse into complaints instead. There had to be a way to get those two to get along. Well, three, if he counted Blackwall. But Solas and Dorian getting along meant more to him than anything else. He wished Maordrid was there. She had been a sort of bridge between worlds, it seemed. He figured now that she was gone, he would have to step up his game and stop playing the helpless, reluctant Inquisitor. The world wanted someone to shepherd them into an era of peace and safety and they were looking to him for guidance. And here he was, riding in the company of a couple of heroes that were  also expecting that of him. He tried not to think about that too deeply or else begin pondering ways to open a rift into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details that no one asked for!::::
> 
> Hero of Ferelden  
>  **Novferen** : I played her as quite a jerk...mostly on accident? I was young when I played Origins and thought trying to be a massive jerk was fun (I also really liked making my characters screw up the world state as much as possible hoping to that it would make future games harder to beat for some reason???idk, kid logic)  
> Nov was super rude to Alistair at first then warmed up to him although he wasn't always supportive of her decisions (though Morrigan was a lot of the time). I'd say Nov does love Alistair, but she's not good for him.  
> Headcanon: Nov was Dalish and never went to a Circle, although after the incident with Tamlen (they blamed her) they decided to go behind her back and attempt to get Templars to come haul her off to the Circle. She took off before they could and ended up meeting Duncan not too far out. Not too divergent, I think.
> 
> **Hawke** : she's selfish, sarcastic, and eventually resented her own family because she felt she was the only one attempting to do anything to give them a good life. This mentality got her into trouble and costed her her family in the end. Advocate for mages and blood magic (friends with Merrill). But after everything, she became a sort of outcast even with her friends. I'd say she had a bit of a rival-friendship with Fenris and they have a good understanding of one another. Come Inquisition, I'd say she has matured a little bit (I know, not much) and is trying to make up for her mistakes. 
> 
> Sort of shotgunned my headcanons for the past games out there (it's a jumbled mess that I haven't given too much thought to, as Inquisition is my favourite). So I apologise for that.


	41. En Passant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **.**

  


“ _You want to fight and kill a nightmare demon_ ,” the pale-haired elf said, pacing back and forth, “ _A bold and arduous undertaking, but also incredibly risky.”_ The woman stopped before the roaring hearth, gloved hands tucked dutifully behind her back. _“Can you say how much this could alter the future, should you succeed?”_ The other elf in the room drummed her fingers on the chessboard beside her chair, sucking in her lower lip as she thought.

_“So far my actions have had little sway on the future,”_ the second elf said. _“Redcliffe was testament to that. If anything could have gone wrong at any point, it would have been my presence there.”_ The blonde elf did an about face, eyes falling on the other sharp as shattered obsidian.

_“Why not influence the Warden to stay behind? Fools, the lot of them. Their order was a mistake,”_ she said with a sneer. The other shook her head slowly, staring at the queen piece balanced beneath her finger.

_“Because he is the least senseless of them. He could be a valuable game piece should we need him later,”_ she said. _“Help me do this, Elgalas. I have reason to believe this thing has been hounding me since I got to this timeline. I have some…questions for it. Preventing the other deaths is only a bonus.”_ Elgalas sighed and took the chair across from her, still facing the fire. Even seated, her impeccable white and black uniform seemed impossibly straight.

_“You’ve been having dreams, you said?”_ Elgalas asked. Maordrid nodded once, a slow dip of her head.

_“Before they closed the Breach there was no way for me to tell whether I was dreaming or not. It was as if I wasn’t Somniari at all. I’m not a strong one to start, but I’m not weak either,”_ Maordrid took a sip from her tea, pausing to warm it slightly with a spell. _“Solas and I theorised that the reason was that the Breach was lending to its abilities to influence me. On the voyage one night I had a dream of placid seas. There was nothing around as far as the eye could see—and yet I could sense something powerful, still lurking at the edges. It is as if it knows it cannot take me directly. It is waiting.”_ Elgalas leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. 

“ _You already ruled out another Dreamer?”_ she asked. Maordrid shrugged.

“ _Who else would it be?”_ Elgalas frowned. 

_“Someone from the deep Fade. Those best forgotten,”_ she murmured. It was Maordrid’s turn to shoot forward, edging on her seat, but this time in ardent disagreement.

_“What you’re saying is impossible—”_

_“Not unless your intrusion on this timeline somehow…I don’t know, disturbed the waters of the Fade. You may have stirred the bottom and continue to do so every time you fall asleep,_ ” Elgalas waved a hand, a quick, short motion. _“It is only another possibility, even though it is…highly unlikely.”_ The woman moved a pawn on the board in an illegal move, clearly deep in thought. _“Either way, I understand that you are in danger. Perhaps you should enlist the help of the Inquisitor and therefore indirectly you would receive none other than Fen’harel’s help himself—the master of dreaming.”_

_“I may as well tell Solas who and what I am, in that case_ ,” Maordrid said, pushing to her feet to take Elgalas’ place before the fire. The short-haired elf behind her _tsked._

_“You are the great Yrja, Traverser of Time and Dreams and you cannot guard your mind long enough for the two of you to look for answers?”_ Elgalas scoffed. _“I don’t believe you.”_

_“Against Solas, I might because he isn’t looking for anything—he doesn’t suspect anything of me to go digging. However, that creature, whatever it is, knows things about me somehow—it can pull memories from me like plucking ripe fruit from a tree. What is out there with that power besides some kind of spirit?”_ The two of them were silent, unable to come up with an answer. “ _Furthermore, what does it want from me?”_ Elgalas hummed, moving another chess piece, the marble clicking on the board as it settled.

“ _Let us say it is a spirit—it seeks to become you, perhaps? As Envy desires to know your heart so that it may take over, or Rage or Desire,”_ Maordrid nodded to let her know she was following, “ _I am not even considering that a mortal would have such ability or sway over you, so perish the thought. No, let us consider another ancient, a Forgotten One, or a Forbidden One?”_ She paused, jet eyes meeting steel, “ _Perhaps even an Old God.”_ Maordrid's laugh was cold and mocking.

“ _Yes, because they can reach—”_ Elgalas cut her off with her hand again.

_“Hypothetically, Yrja.”_ She let out a breath slowly, but motioned for her colleague to continue. “ _If any of them were aware of your arrival here or what you accomplished—especially in this world where magic is dampened—what do you think you look like to them?”_

“ _Like I have come upon an immense amount of power,_ ” she relented. Elgalas nodded.

_“I was thinking even broader—if any of them were aware that you had torn through time itself, don’t you think they might theorise that you may still have a connection to the plane that you came from? That somehow you may be able to draw even more power should you choose to try?”_ Maordrid cracked her neck irritably. Inside, she balked at the thought.

_“The device Dorian created ensured that their world would cease to exist—that timeline ends abruptly. I am certain he thought of that when he was working on it,”_ she said. 

_“Are there not theories about timelines potentially splitting infinitely? Perhaps it ended, but there may be a branch where it didn’t?”_ Maordrid forced herself to remain still, although her fist wanted to connect with the mantle. That would only break her hand. Instead, her breath came out in steam. _“Peace, my friend. I am with you, not against you.”_

_“You have no idea what I left behind,_ ” she whispered. _“I do not know if I could live with myself if I escaped that world and they were left to suffer_.” 

_“You may have to come to terms with the idea that that is exactly what you may have done,”_ Elgalas carried on, “ _Either way, you are different than the Yrja I knew. You’re more…powerful. It comes as no surprise to me that you have run into the problem that you have. It also makes me wonder how many others may have sensed you as I have.”_ Maordrid looked down at her calloused hands in silence. “ _You have always been skilled in things you chose to pursue, Yrja. But your journey has altered you and now you are facing unforeseen consequences.”_

_“I am not unaware of the changes,”_ she admitted. “ _But they are not new. We did a lot of things in the other timeline to give ourselves an edge. None of it mattered in the end.”_ Elgalas shrugged uneasily.

_“Perhaps things were too far advanced for it to have made any difference,”_ Elgalas’ eyes seemed to stare right through her very being as she spoke. “ _But now…if you could master your dragon’s form, I am both inspired and…a fair bit intimidated by what you could accomplish.”_ She knew that they would see her strength as a potential weakness. Power had always meant corruption to her people. But at what point would power ever be a good thing to them? To her, it meant she could provide protection as she never could before. “ _Yrja, you are potentially one of the most powerful mages of the modern age.”_

_“She wouldn’t believe me when I said it on the trip over and she likely won’t believe you now,”_ a male voice said from the other room. Tahiel glided in and took post up against a window where he had view of the city outside. _“Ghimyean was the most powerful in our organisation. We remember him well enough to confidently say you have certainly surpassed even his skill. You know more shapeshifting forms than anyone in the Elu’bel, you are a bloody Dreamer—somewhat of a rarity in Elvhenan and certainly even scarcer an occurrence today…”_

_“Don’t forget the Arcane Warrior bit,”_ Elgalas drawled. _“So illustrious that she was requested as a Fade Hunter and an Emerald Knight.”_ Maordrid clenched a fist although the fight had gone from her. These were things she never gave thought. She did things and moved on, trying to stay out of the light at all times.

“ _Except I never was what anyone wanted. You know this. They cast me out before I was ever given the title,_ ” she said. “ _I have failed far more than I have succeeded.”_ The other two were silent, exchanging some kind of expression that only irked Maordrid. 

“ _You defected to live with fucking dragons—the Knights didn’t cast you out,_ ” Elgalas said. Maordrid flinched.

_“Remember when she was Naèv Enso, friend of the Stone?”_ Tahiel snorted. “ _Your names always amused me. A woman with enough secrets to make Dirthamen flush with envy, I’d say.”_

_“Not really,”_ she said petulantly. _“Will you give me the means to fight the nightmare demon or not, Elgalas?”_ The stiff elf dropped her smug grin and rubbed the skin between her brows.

_“Tahiel? Is the amplifier crystal you built still here?”_ Elgalas asked. He nodded, raising an eyebrow curiously. “ _Dear Naèv Enso has need of it._ ” Tahiel left the room wordlessly, presumably to go search for the object. 

_“So you have something after all?”_ Maordrid frowned. Earlier, she had asked for such a tool and Elgalas had assured her there was nothing in her vault that would help her. She was beginning to wonder if their trust in her was wavering. She should have kept her bloody mouth shut about dragon forms and dreams. She would have to be careful from now on, they would be scrutinising her every action within the Inquisition. Any sign of power abuse and they would potentially order her termination. She hoped her own organisation wouldn’t turn against her. 

_“I only just thought of it,”_ Elgalas said, but Maordrid didn’t believe her. “ _It isn’t the most convenient, but building something from scratch will take time you don’t have. The crystal is a spike that you drive into the ground and activate with a spell which then sends out a visible force field. Any spells cast from the inside will be amplified exponentially. Should be enough to blow chunks off of the monster.”_

“ _That means ranged spells and limited mobility,”_ Maordrid cursed. Elgalas rolled her eyes.

_“You’ll thank me later.”_ At that moment, Tahiel returned carrying a shimmering white spear of crystal half the size of her forearm and encased in a cage of metal unidentifiable to her. He slipped it into an old quiver and held it out to her.

“ _While I am still here, is there anything you two need of me?”_ she asked, slipping the strap over her torso.

“ _Knowing that you’re alive is enough for me,”_ Elgalas said. _“We are making good progress with the Eluvians. From what you gave us regarding Solas overriding the network in the other timeline, I have reason to believe we can do it ourselves, should we fail to retrieve the pass phrase from Briala. It may be easier to simply find the control room than pull it from a stubborn girl.”_

_“I have no doubts that we will acquire the network—it’s holding them that will be the most difficult,_ ” Maordrid said. Tahiel made a noise in his throat, something between an exclamation and a cough. “ _Thoughts?”_

“ _My place is to build things, not strategise. However, you’re right: holding the entire network will be incredibly difficult. So why don’t we work it to our advantage? We still have people working for Fen’harel, which means we will always have access so long as our people don’t blow their cover,”_ he said. _“Why not gain access, take the pathways we need, and then have someone get the phrase for him?”_ Elgalas looked about to protest, but Maordrid nodded slowly. “ _Yrja, he doesn’t even suspect you. If you continue to earn his trust and respect…you could be the one to slip that information to him.”_ Tahiel spread his hands, the scars on his face contorting his sly grin into more of a grimace. “ _Who knows, it might even be enough that he’d 'recruit' you officially.”_ Elgalas laughed in disbelief.

_“She’s in with the Inquisitor, you think he would risk asking her to turn against him?”_ she said. 

_“If she plays her cards right, yes,”_ Tahiel’s eyes held a shine to them that Maordrid didn’t like. _“Imagine that, the Dread Wolf’s Commander.”_ Commander was not what he meant and she knew it. He expected her to abuse her friendship with him, or worse. She felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it. “ _We were able to navigate with little difficulty when the Evanuris controlled portions—what makes it any different with him?”_

“ _Your point is sound, but I still do not like it,_ ” Elgalas said and Maordrid definitely agreed.

“ _Think on it, Yrja. It would allow us to keep an eye on his movements if we had someone at the top,”_ Tahiel continued.

“ _I don’t even know how I would work that into conversation,”_ she mused. 

“ _You’ll think of a way. You always do. We haven’t gotten that far, so you’ll have time to think on it,”_ he said. Maordrid just waved him off, but nodded.

_“Anything else?”_ she deigned to ask. When neither of them said anything, she turned toward the door. “ _If you think of anything, you know how to get in contact. I am leaving in the morning. I think I need some rest.”_ With that, she retired to the guest rooms of Elgalas’ house


	42. Murder & Mangoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update 'cause why not.
> 
> ♥

  


Yin stared bleakly at the bodies of Grey Wardens piled carelessly to the side of the tower. Erimond had run off during the fight, leaving them no chance to pursue. Everyone else was busy looking stunned and fearful of what they had just learned of the Wardens. He couldn’t even look at Alistair for fear of throttling the man. Solas had looked like he wanted to do the same but was also standing off to the side of the tower by himself, stiff with fury. Dhrui was off consoling Blackwall who had gone to sit down, looking awfully pale.

“That went well.” Yin turned as Hawke joined them from outside, observing the carnage around them. She whistled lowly. “Mind ‘splaining?” Yin gestured to Alistair who looked paler than usual.

“You were right. Thanks to the ritual, the Warden mages are enslaved to Corypheus,” Yin said. 

“What about the warriors?” Alistair said nothing to her, but Yin’s eyes went to the corpses. Hawke followed his gaze and cursed. “Gah! Dammit, abusing blood magic. Those poor bastards.”

“They were tricked through fear of future Blights,” Yin said. “Not that that excuses them.”

“They’ve gone too far. Blood magic isn’t inherently bad, but sacrificing people? I once thought highly of the Wardens,” she said with vitriol. Alistair rounded on her.

“Hawke, they made a mistake. One they thought was necessary,” he said.

“Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions…and it never matters,” she retorted. “In the end, we are always alone with our actions.” Alistair slumped but let the matter go, much to Yin’s relief. He wasn’t about to take sides, although he was certainly more furious with the Wardens. Preventing the Blight was a nice thought, but not in the incredibly foolish way that Erimond had so kindly described.

“—may know where the Wardens are. Erimond fled that way…” Alistair was saying, pointing in a direction that meant nothing to Yin. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress in that direction. Adamant.”

“Oh, fantastic. A fortress to keep them safe while they summon their demons,” Yin said. Hawke scowled.

“Looks like Alistair and I have a job to do. We’ll scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there. We’ll meet you back at Skyhold?” Yin scanned the desert quickly, wondering how long it would take them to investigate the Approach and then make their way back home.

“We’ve some business to conclude as well, but _sí,_ we will meet there,” Yin said. They quickly said their farewells once they had departed from the grim tower and went their separate ways. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“We _must_ stop the Wardens from carrying out this insane plan, Inquisitor!” Solas said, as they mounted up and reined toward the west. There was some scholar reportedly out that way that Yin wanted to meet before leaving. And then there was Griffon Wing Keep that he wanted to visit and perhaps claim for the Inquisition. He was certainly in the mood to do so now. “To seek out these Old Gods deliberately in some bizarre attempt to preempt the Blight…” 

“They won’t succeed. We’re going to stop them. I’m not a Warden and I’m certainly not all-knowing, but there has to be another way to accomplish what they’re trying to do,” Yin said. Solas calmed and a strange look came over his face, as though some great realisation had dawned on him. 

“I wasn’t aware you felt the same way,” he said, causing Yin to roll his eyes.

“My friend, you and I have our differences but I can assure you we also have more similarities. In this instance, I absolutely agree that this entire group of people are behaving stupidly,” Yin said. Solas shook his head, still upset.

“Those fools and duty,” he muttered, “Responsibility is not expertise. Action is not inherently superior to inaction. Forgive me, the entire idea is…unnerving.” 

“That it is,” the Inquisitor agreed grimly. 

The group went on to meet Professor Frederic and promised to get his belongings back from the White Claw Raiders as they made their way the opposite way to Griffon Wing Keep. 

“We’re going to take a keep, brother?” Dhrui asked as they passed into the growing shade of its walls. They all hopped down off their mounts to discuss a plan of action. 

“Just another day in the Inquisition,” Dorian said, stretching his legs and unstrapping his staff. “Y’know, stopping cultists, capturing castles, killing things, and looting—all perfectly legal, too, if you can believe that.” Dhrui giggled.

“Here’s how it goes, Dhru,” Yin said, putting an arm across her shoulders. “Solas provides barriers, Rift magic, and the occasional ice wall to protect from oncoming missiles. Dorian does some interesting counters to that with fire and…well, apparently he’s also a fucking necromancer, so don’t be startled when enemies you killed suddenly get back up. Blackwall is our bulwark and rams people like the hull of a ship, so if you’re getting chased run to him for protection. Stay out of Bianca’s way and watch out for Varric’s impromptu traps. You won’t see much of Cole, but he seems to know exactly when to come in with his knives.” 

“And what do you do, Inquisitor?” she said in a teasing tone. 

“Me? Oh, I sit back in safety and stab flags in things when everyone else has killed everything.” Dorian made a flubbing sound with his lips

“He’s quite invaluable. Yin’s Mark allows him to open rifts, sometimes. He’s becoming quite skilled at his Rift-Warrior combination as well. Maori used to fight up alongside our warriors when she wasn’t, oh, recovering from being near-maimed after saving someone. Yin thinks he can do the same thing and surprisingly he’s doing well enough,” he said. 

“Am I doing her memory proud?” Yin asked. The response was mixed from the others. “Ugh, I know. Until I can summon a Sword Storm I know it won’t be good enough.”

“Don’t forget fighting on no sleep and vaulting over live glyphs,” Solas said.

"Or the shots of that Liquid Punishment before most fights," Blackwall added. Dhrui laughed, looking shocked.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised considering what I’ve heard, but here I am. A woman after my own heart!” The others laughed and began following Yin around the stronghold to begin their mini-assault. “Could she cast spells while fighting with her sword?”

“She fought with a spear, but yes,” Yin answered. 

“Wicked,” Dhrui whispered as they laid eyes on a couple of guards stationed outside the portcullis. Yin and Solas carefully took aim at them with their staves and on verbalised count, released two stone fists followed closely by a barrage of searing fireballs and crossbow bolts from Dorian and Varric. Blackwall and Cole dashed ahead to finish them off and led their group into the following attack. Together, they fought up into the courtyard with Solas and Yin providing barriers—and a partial Aegis—while Dorian slowly accumulated a small army of undead. Varric nailed archers accumulating on the walls around them. Dhrui accidentally spiked a few of Dorian’s undead with her Keeper magic, despite the earlier warning. She resorted to using just winter in combination with storm, creating puddles of water around enemies that she then charged with electricity. Meanwhile, Yin tried a few tricks of his own that he and Solas had been practising. Veilstrike in combination with fire was one of his favourites at the moment, as the heat trapped within the bubble of the strike leeched all of the air out of the area while throwing anyone trapped inside to the ground. Without air to breathe, their enemies were often left gasping and vulnerable on the ground.

Perhaps an hour later, the fight was over. Dorian waved a hand and watched with morbid amusement as his minions collapsed to the ground. Solas shook his head, panting and glaring at the sun which had begun to bake his skin once his protective spell had worn off. Varric got busy looting bodies. Dhrui leaned lazily against her staff as Yin and Blackwall hung an Inquisition banner from the ramparts.

“You weren’t joking about planting flags,” she remarked. “Deshanna thinks you’re out claiming land for the Dalish.” Yin groaned and sagged against the wall tiredly.

“I’m not a conqueror,” he said. “Does she expect me to cast out all the humans as well? Build New Arlathan somewhere?” Dhrui snorted and joined him on the ground.

“I think she said something along the lines of marrying you off to a fair maiden and conceiving the next generation of Lavellans. Who knows what she thinks now that you’re Inquisitor.” Dhrui leaned her head against the warm stone and closed her eyes with a smirk. 

“If you go back, you know that’s what awaits you,” Yin teased and it was her turn to groan.

“You think after seeing what you’ve been doin’ here that I’m going back to blissful domesticity?” she cried. “Ha, ha--no. I’m putting that responsibility on Raj. Not that he minds it. I thought twin life was supposed to be this magical thing, but honestly it’s good to be away from him. He was beginning to get suffocating.” Yin stared at her until she noticed him. “What? Big brudder don’t approve?”

“Don’t get me wrong…I just…worry.” Dhrui leaned over and pinched his cheek, cooing.

“Aw, he’s protective! Don’t worry, Yin. I came here to make sure someone had your back. I’m not out to rebel,” she said. “Unlike you, Ser Vint-Seducer!” Yin blushed and swatted at her. “You think I didn’t notice? At least he’s nice. I mean, he doesn’t have any elf slaves back home, does he?” Yin blanched. He hadn’t thought to ask. “Well, if he does, maybe he’ll change his mind. Are you two…official, then?” 

“Dhrui, _please_ shut up,” he whispered, watching Dorian as he sifted through what supplies the previous occupants had left behind. His sister snickered. 

“This is just adorable,” she said, way too excited. “ _You’re smitten!_ I thought I’d never see the day!” Yin buried his face in his knees. “Gods, and I thought you were all lovesick over Maordrid!” 

“I was. I…please, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even know how to approach _him_ about it,” Yin pleaded. Dhrui rolled onto her knees before him, demanding his attention.

“Talking about it is _exactly_ what you need, silly,” she said. “Look, that guy is probably nervous as fuck about approaching the mighty Inquisitor—you’re gonna have to do all the wooing. You kiss him already?” Yin was glancing between her and Dorian frantically— _Creators,_ and sweating too much! 

“He kissed me!” he whispered quickly. 

“Good! Do it again! Bet he likes wine, too. Look at that fancy boy. If it helps, every time he looks at you his whole face goes all soft and sweet, I love it.” Dhrui poked his shoulder with a finger, drawing his attention again. 

“Sometimes I hate being this…leader thing,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

“It’s what you make of it, brother. Eventually it’ll get through his head that you want to be treated like everyone else,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great. I know I pissed Solas off initially, but I’ve gotten to talking to him and he’s very fond of you.” Yin smiled. “Oh, and if none of that worked to inflate your ego, that beard of yours is probably the best thing you’ve ever done.” It worked. Yin guffawed heartily, loud and echoing across the top. And of course, to top it off, Dhrui procured a bundle of wrapped fruit from her pack. 

“You’re a blessing from the gods themselves, little sister,” he said, accepting the mango. He had no idea where she’d gotten the tropical fruit from, but if anyone had it this far south, she would. She shook her own slice at him while chewing.

“You think so now,” she chuckled, “I didn’t give you that fruit to be nice. It’ll freshen your breath up for when you go kiss Dorian. Trust me, it works.” 

“I don’t want to know how many times you’ve done that,” he said, and she winked.

“Well, now’s a good time than ever. You’ve just conquered a keep. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t be turned on by that,” she said.

“Gods, you’re insufferable!” Yin got to his feet to escape her, red faced and laughing.

“Learned from the worst of them!” she called after him. When he joined Dorian before a well where the mage was fishing out a bucket of cool water, he had half a mind to throw himself into it. Yin opened his mouth to say something, but Dorian beat him to it, “You and your sister aren’t as subtle as you think you are.” 

“Uh,” he croaked, mind going blank. 

“She has some great pointers, though,” Dorian continued, then leaned over and sniffed the water before promptly throwing it back in. Come to think of it, the well did smell funny. Dorian pulled his own waterskin from his belt, uncorking it. He tilted his head back and drank, eyes closing slightly against the sun. Yin very quietly lost his mind at the sight of Dorian’s bared throat. Smooth, caramel skin. A delicate sheen of sweat made him quite literally sparkle. He wondered if the heat was cooking his brain and he had just imagined Varric's laugh or if the dwarf merely had uncanny timing with laughter. 

“Like?” 

“Eating mango before kissing someone,” he said. As if discussing the weather. “We employ a similar tactic back in Tevinter. With sweets and flavoured oils in a wide variety as well.” Dorian held the water out, to which Yin accepted.

“I’ll bet they stole that from Antiva,” he said before he drank. 

“That may be, but we do it better,” Dorian smirked. 

“I’ll need some proof of that,” Yin said. Dorian glanced back up the steps where the voices of the others were carried on the wind. 

“Do you have any of that mango left?” he asked, turning back to him. Yin procured his last slice suspiciously, which the man took delicately between his index and middle finger. With his other hand, he reached into his own pocket and removed a fancy flask.

“Brought some of that Vanilla Pear spirit with you from Skyhold?” Yin said with a feigned gasp as Dorian unscrewed the top and the smell of sugared pears issued out. 

“You can’t very well expect me to drink that demon’s piss you carry around, do you?” Dorian scoffed, taking a swift sip. He glanced one more time up the stairs before placing the mango between his lips. Then, he drew Yin forward by his lapels, slating his lips against his much gentler and less urgent than the first time. The taste of mango and pear alcohol on Dorian’s tongue coupled with the explosion of butterflies in his stomach was almost too much to take, but this time he had been semi-prepared. Dorian pulled him behind cover of a shed where he pushed Yin up against the wall and trapped him beneath his body. He took his time, sipping his lips slowly to spread the taste and smell of vanilla, pear, and mango across his senses. Yin’s heart hammered against his ribcage as he in turn deepened the kiss, then broke away to give attention to the spot on Dorian’s neck that had caught his eye earlier. The other man hummed softly, entangling a hand in Yin’s locks.

“It is a crying shame that we aren’t back at Skyhold,” Yin whispered into his ear, “I think you’d like my private quarters.” A sultry chuckle came from deep in Dorian's throat. Yin kissed it one more time before releasing the other man slowly. 

“Do you remember when I suggested we get piss-drunk back in Redcliffe?” Dorian breathed against him. Yin nodded, inhaling slowly when he took his turn planting a lingering kiss against his neck. “The _shame_ lies in that we haven’t.”

“And we shall. I just want to get you alone when there’s time.” Yin pulled away from him reluctantly, meeting his eyes. Dorian’s pupils were blown wide and he could only imagine he was in a similar state. His hair was likely a mess, but he didn’t care. Yin reached out, carefully running his thumb across Dorian’s lower lip before dropping his hand. _I’m completely ensnared—how has this come to be?_ “If you’ve a mind, of course.” The other man backed away with a lovely little smile playing on his lips. He winked and left Yin there against the wall of the shed, head spinning and pants uncomfortably tight in places. He swore loudly to himself in Antivan. Dorian’s giggle halfway up the steps had him both frustrated and melting at his elusiveness. But, as he thought on it, he found that it was a frustration he did not mind having. In fact, he _wanted_ it. And when he crested the top of the stairs minutes later, it was as though big truths kept hitting him one after the other. Because at that moment, when he looked at each of his companions, Dorian didn’t fail to meet his gaze this time. And on his face was that fabled look he’d been told so much about but had not yet seen. He was loathe to acknowledge his feelings at all, but Dhrui had been wrong about being smitten. No, it was beyond that, and it scared him because despite everything, he knew Dorian might not feel as he did. He had been too careless with their relationship, treating it like another shallow tryst of his twenties. Right there he swore to tell Dorian how he felt, but next time it would be in a better setting. One where he could corner the man…and himself, for he’d been a coward thus far. _I want to know you—as much as I can. To show that I care about you in every way._

The word sat just behind his lips on his tongue, lingering with the mango and pear. It was heavy and filled with hesitance, but the truth resonated through his body like a struck bell.

Yin returned the secret smile and held his hand just above his heart as he turned away. _Yes, this is right,_ he thought. _It has never been so right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always have so much I want to say or make note of when I'm writing, but when it comes to posting I completely forget.  
> Anyway, I'd just like to thank you all for reading this. It means so much to me. :)


	43. All New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Faded for Her.

The next several days came and went and the companions swept across the land accomplishing as much as they could on the way back to Skyhold. When they left the desert and came upon the Deauvin Flats, they were given their first break from questing and immediate responsibilities in several weeks. With no trouble in sight and rippling grass and swaying trees as far as they could see, it seemed they would be able to relax just a little bit until they reached the Dales. Unfortunately, Yin’s original plan of Sahrnia, the Forbidden Oasis, and whatever else had to be put on hold until they found out the situation at Adamant. They were heading straight back to Skyhold.

On their second morning camping on the Flats, Yin emerged from his tent to see Solas sitting by the fire with his head in one hand, nursing a cup of tea. The man grimaced as he swallowed some and Yin couldn’t repress the snicker that escaped him.

“Bad tea?” he asked, joining his friend. Those damned rings had appeared beneath Solas’ eyes once again and he knew those to be a bad sign. Solas’ nose wrinkled as he glared into the cup.

“It’s tea. I detest the stuff,” he muttered, quickly downing some more. “But this morning, I need to shake the dreams from my mind. I may also need a favour.” Yin immediately straightened, now recognising the distress in Solas’ posture. Even his aura seemed off that morning, sharp and jagged. He had been riding the afterglow of Dorian’s affections since Griffon Wing Keep and had failed to focus on much since. He felt terrible.

“Anything for you, _falon_ ,” Yin said. Solas turned the cup in his hands as he cast his gaze into the ashes of their campfire.

“One of my oldest friends has been captured by mages, forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept,” he said. Yin’s stomach sank.

“First Maori, now another?” Yin cursed aloud. “Please tell me we can help them? What did they use to capture your friend? Blood magic?” Solas looked at him, ears twitching.

“A summoning circle, I would imagine,” he said, and it clicked in his mind.

“A spirit, then? What kind?” he asked worriedly.

“A spirit of Wisdom,” Solas replied, “And it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade. It was summoned against its will, and wants my help to gain its freedom and return to the Fade.” Yin got to his feet and brushed himself off.

“Then we should get going. I’ll tell the others what’s going on and we’ll ride ahead,” he said, offering Solas his hand. 

“Thank you,” Solas said with utter relief once he was standing. “I got a sense of my friend’s location before I awoke. It is in the Exalted Plains of the Dales, not far from where we are now.” Yin nodded and hurriedly grabbed his staff, strapping it to Terror. Then he slipped into Dorian’s tent where the mage shifted and rolled over, eyes opening in surprise.

“Well, this is awfully forward,” Dorian mused as Yin crouched beside him.

“I have an emergency. Solas and I have to race to the Exalted Plains—I’ll mark a map where we’ll be, but we’re leaving now. Meet us there,” Yin said. Dorian nodded groggily, working to sit up. Yin paused as he went to leave, then spun back and planted a kiss against Dorian’s lips. “For luck.”

“Be careful, you ox,” the man whispered as Yin departed with a laugh. Solas had already left their map marked and in the open for the others. He waited outside the camp on his horse, and as soon as Yin was mounted, the two galloped off. 

For the next couple of hours, they alternated between resting their horses, talking sparsely, then resuming their flight. Although Maordrid’s death had hit them both hard, Yin didn’t want to think about how it would affect Solas should they fail to save Wisdom. Not that he wasn’t still aching at her loss, but he had more distractions and responsibilities than Solas to really stop and think on it. He tried and failed to think of anything else as they entered the Dales and dismounted. The other elf immediately set off on foot, eyes picking along the landscape frantically. 

“Solas, wait,” Yin said, catching up to him. The man slowed some, but stress was writ across his face. “I just want you to know…whatever we may find out there, I swear to you I’m going to do everything in my power to fix it.” Solas managed a weak smile that quickly faded, but said nothing. The two of them continued on, searching the rocky land for signs, although Yin wasn’t particularly sure what _he_ was supposed to be looking for. In the war-torn lands of the Dales, it was already difficult distinguishing new wreckage from old at a distance. They walked at a distance, not too far from one another in hopes to cover more ground quickly. 

Yin clambered on top of a rock stack some hours later to drink from his water, peering around. He hoped the others weren’t far behind or ran into bandits on the way. Without their map, he and Solas were making poor time trying to remember landmarks and gauging distance of where they should be. Yin was tying his waterskin back on his belt when something white caught his eye, tucked just beneath a rock on the other side of his perch. When he climbed down, he realised it was a body, which was somewhat disturbing but also not an uncommon occurrence where they were. But this one was…fresh. The blood was still wet around a couple of arrows that had quite obviously ended the woman’s life.

“Solas?” he shouted and heard the elf curse as he likely hurt himself trying to get to him. The rocks were treacherous there. “This looks like a mage to me,” he said when Solas landed beside him off the stone. He gave the body a cursory glance and then studied the expanse of dirt around them. Yin realised that it was an old neglected road.

“Bandits?” Solas murmured. They each rotated, looking north and south of the body. 

“Mages summoning against bandits as a desperate act of defence,” Yin said with dread. Solas paled. “I think I recognise this from the map. Let’s go south.” They moved farther down the overgrown path, coming over a curve when they saw the next set of bodies. They were almost completely destroyed compared to the last one.

“These aren’t mages,” Solas said with growing desperation, “The bodies are burned. Look, there are…claw marks… _no. No. No. No…!”_ He took off at a trot with Yin following close at his heels looking for danger. Just around the bed, he caught sight of strange white points jutting out of the landscape ahead. He realised what they were as soon as they heard the roar of anguish. The massive demon came into sight as they rounded the rocks and Solas skidded to a stop. “My friend…” Yin tried not to let Solas’ despair shake him.

“They turned it into a demon,” Yin breathed. Solas nodded, eyes still pinned to what had been his friend. “But you said your friend was a spirit of Wisdom, not a fighter.”

“A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose,” Solas said, clenching his hands. 

“The bodies we saw…they summoned it to fight. Which was something so opposed to its nature that it…turned?” Yin realised. Solas paced back and forth like a cornered wolf, repeating _what have they done, what did they do?_ under his breath. Yin reached out and stilled his friend when a robed mage suddenly appeared from hiding behind a rock nearby. 

“Let us ask them,” the apostate hissed, taut with rage.

“Mages! You’re not with the bandits?” the pasty human asked, approaching cautiously. “Thank the Maker! Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted. We’ve been fighting that demon…” Solas growled.

“You _summoned_ that demon! Except it was a spirit of Wisdom at the time.” The man hung his head as though  peeved for being admonished by an apostate. “You made it kill. You twisted it against its purpose.”

“I…I…I understand how it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can…” Solas cut him off, voice low and threatening, “We’re not here to help _you.”_ Yin turned his attention to the sputtering mage.

“Did you intend to summon a demon in hopes that it would ravage your enemies? See what good that did,” Yin said, gesturing back toward the bodies along the path. The robed man gasped.

“Pah! _Intentionally?_ Do you think me mad?” he asked, and Yin shrugged.

“I think you stupid,” Solas bit back, “That’s far worse.”

“Listen to me! I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circle—”

“ _Shut. Up._ ” And the mage, thankfully, did when Solas took a step toward him. “You summoned it to protect you from the bandits.” The mage wrung his hands, but then admitted quietly to his accusal. “You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. _That_ is when it turned.” Solas turned to Yin then, who was still glaring at the human. “The summoning circle. We break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.” The Kirkwall milksop nearly leapt out of his robes at his words, lifting his hands as if to beg.

“What? The binding is the only thing keeping the demon from killing us! Whatever it was before, it is a monster now!”

“Inquisitor, please,” Solas begged, but he didn’t need to.

“Rifts are gateways to the Fade. We can use that magic to overload the bindings more quickly, no?” Yin suggested, removing his staff from his back. A shrill whistle had them both turning. Not far down the path they saw Blackwall, Cole, Dorian, Varric, and Dhrui leaving their mounts to come join them. 

“Yes, brilliant. It should go faster with the others as well,” Solas said. “We must go, quickly!” Yin nodded and the two of them Fade-stepped toward the summoning circle. Blackwall charged into the middle about to attack until Yin ordered him not to. The man immediately corrected, merely shouting and waving his shield at Wisdom to distract it away from them as they crushed the tall stones. Dhrui crumbled them with roots called from the ground while Yin worked his Rift magic. Dorian threw barriers over them all and helped to keep Blackwall from being crushed beneath its feet. 

“Solas, look out!” Cole shouted. Yin turned to see the demon swiping at him after Blackwall had failed to keep its attention, but Dhrui was quick to react, dropping her staff and throwing up her hands. With the motion, massive roots erupted from the ground and wrapped around the demon’s thick limbs, keeping it from cutting their Dreamer in half. 

“Destroy the last one, dammit!” Dhrui shrieked as she strained to hold onto the roots. With a well aimed stone from Yin and an explosive-rigged bolt from Varric, they blasted the last binding pillar into dust. The demon roared into the air and collapsed to its knees where its form began to falter. Flakes of purple, white, and grey fell away, returning to the Fade. Dhrui released her hold on the roots but stayed at a distance as Solas approached the delicate figure that had been left in place of the massive demon. Yin stood closest in awe of the spirit, but quickly realised it was in poor shape as it coughed weakly. 

“ _Lethallin, ir abelas.”_ Solas went to his knees before her, voice quavering with sorrow. 

“ _Tel’abelas. Enasal. Ir tel’him,_ ” she replied softly. “ _Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghilana mir din’an.”_ Yin heard Solas take a breath, looking away down the river as he steeled himself. 

“ _Ma nuvenin,”_ he said, then with a gentle undulation of his hands, he guided the spirit into the Beyond. She smiled as she went and it was hard even for Yin to repress his emotions. “ _Dareth shiral.”_ Solas remained on his heels, head bowed. Varric nudged Yin, nodding toward him.

“It was right. You did help it,” Yin said, coming to stand beside him. Solas rose, still staring where his friend had been. “I’m so sorry, Solas.” The man finally looked at him wearing a sad smile. 

“Don’t be,” he said, “We gave it a moments peace before the end. That’s more than it might’ve had.” Tentative footsteps in the gravel drew their attention to the small group of mages that had hid during the fight. “All that remains now is them.” 

“Thank you. We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected,” the lead mage said. Yin prepared to deliver a proper lashing, but Solas advanced on them, his aura crackling with the static of rage.

“ _You_ tortured and killed my friend!” The mages backed away, suddenly seeing Solas for what he was: the true threat.

“We didn’t know! It was just a spirit—the book said it could help us!” the mage tried for one last attempt to reason, but it was futile as Solas unleashed a tempest of fire so hot that Yin’s eyes dried out painfully, forcing him to look away. When it died down, twisted and blackened corpses were all that remained. Yin thought perhaps maybe he should have stopped him, but knew that if it had been him in his place he would absolutely have done the same thing.

“Damn them all,” Solas said, not facing him. “I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.” Yin watched him go until he was swallowed by rocks and trees. The others finally joined him in a semi-circle before the bodies.

“Ah, poor Chuckles,” Varric said under his breath.

“Are you okay?” Dhrui asked, reaching out to Yin. The fire in his blood was beginning to die down, leaving him weary and weighed with emotion.

“I will be. But I’d like to rest,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Dhrui rubbed his arm.

“There’s that old elven bathhouse on the other side of the river. We could go there,” she said. “That or reach out to that Clan nearby.” 

“I don’t think I’m of the mind to put on niceties for others,” Yin mumbled. 

“I could do for a bath,” Dorian piped up. “We could draw a bunch of runes in the water and make it into a sauna?” Dhrui made her approval clear with a grin. 

“That poor man. I know he said he’d see us at Skyhold, but if I were him I’m not sure I’d come back,” Blackwall said, looking off where Solas had vanished. 

“I wouldn’t blame him. But I hope he doesn’t leave,” Yin said.

“The hurt is raw, ragged, bleeding like it was when the warrior went,” Cole said. “There was hope but now he feels lost.” 

“I don’t think you should talk about Solas without him being here, Cole,” Yin said as they waded across the river toward the ruins. The first time they had been across the plains their group had stopped to clear the place of bandits and a particularly tough rift. The others were being overly helpful, erecting his tent and offering to make dinner and tend to the horses that evening. Yin threw his hands up after being shut down a sixth time, taking a bottle from Dorian’s pack to nurse at the banks of the Enavuris. He pulled his sweaty boots off once he was there and removed his greaves so that he could roll up his pants. Then he simply sat in the river and peered up at the giant wolf statue on the other side, watching regally over the rest of the Dales. Partway through the bottle of wine, he began to sink into that dark depression he had avoided for so long. Fortunately someone came looking for him before he was too deep. 

“You dwelling on things that can’t be helped?” Dhrui plopped down beside him, eyeing the bottle dangling in his hand. He gave a small laugh.

“You know me too well,” he said, taking another drink. 

“You’re my brother. We do similar things,” she said. “Don’t punish yourself. Those mages were idiots and you couldn’t have done anything to prevent what happened.” She yanked the bottle from his hand and took a drink herself. “What you did for Solas wasn’t just some light favour. How many people do you know that would stop to help an elven apostate save his spirit friend? Hm?” Yin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye to see her boring a hole into his temple. “You didn’t ridicule him, you didn’t ask questions—you just knew your friend needed help and you went. See, my stupid ass might’ve cracked a joke or two and I know everyone else in the damned group would’ve hesitated in your position, if not outright killed her out of fear or something.” Yin picked through the stones at his side until he found sand underneath, sifting it in his hand as he mulled over her words. 

“That was my one chance to help him. To prove to him what I’m worth. Solas _never_ asks for help—for anything,” he said. “He has such a low opinion of our people, doesn’t even associate with us. _Mierde,_ even _I_ have begun to question it all. Maordrid wasn’t Dalish and she seemed to have just as much knowledge as him in some ways. Seems like apostates might have figured something out that we Dalish haven’t.” Dhrui laughed.

“Yeah, maybe, but it still didn’t help in the end. He’ll be all right. Death is part of this world,” she said. “But we can help him endure as his friends.” Yin felt his lips threatening to smile. “C’mon, I have an idea. When was the last time you hunted?” 

“Probably a year before all of this,” Yin admitted.

“Well, whatever. I just remembered that Ithiren fellow at that camp mentioned something about Hanal’ghilan roaming about the fields here. Let’s go find her,” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “Bring the wine, it’ll be fun!” Yin groaned and allowed her to pull him to his feet. She was much slighter than he was—a hulking bear leaning against a sapling—but she’d a couple of decades practice mastering her centre of balance up against two larger siblings. Yin left his boots on the shore, feeling the grass and earth beneath his feet for the first time since leaving his Clan. Dhrui padded ahead of him silently, long braid swaying with each step and uneven hair fluttering in the night breeze.

Hunting the golden halla turned out to be ridiculously fun, but also rather mortifying to him as he realised just how out of practice he was. He had never been good at sneaking like the other elves in the clan, but shooting things with a bow or magic had been what made him competent. In either case, they weren’t there to kill anything. Dhrui just wanted to see if they could sneak up on the halla. There were a few wolves lurking nearby, watching a small herd but the two of them scared the predators off with small zaps of electricity at their tails. 

They ran across the plains laughing wildly with wine in their empty bellies like two troublesome Dalish children during a festival. Even as it grew later and the sun set behind the mountains in the distance, they stayed out, crawling, leaping, rolling, tripping, and chasing, not always after the halla but after anything that moved. And Yin couldn’t be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday I spent all day writing and watching Solas/Lavellan videos on Youtube, trying to do some note taking. _F_. Solas hurts so good. Of course, got super distracted watching like...all Solas videos. Then I got to the Trespasser vidyas with low approval and romanced, just for extra punishment. Those animators (and Trevor Morris <3) did such a phenomenal job, even a couple years later.  
> Anyway, I wrote until 3 a.m. last night with three Adamant videos open. hnngyeah
> 
>  
> 
> Unrelated note: I passed my national exam! I'm an EMT now!


	44. Exurgency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Splitting this up into two chapters, one long and short.

After a few days at sea and a couple more spent sitting at the captain’s humble abode with Tahiel, Maordrid finally departed having made a new friend of the ex-slave. The captain sent her off with a small bundle of freshly baked dumplings and a little pouch full of his favourite mixture of smoking herbs. They had bonded over a shared love for the sea and Yuko, the captain, had taught her a few fishing techniques. His simple life had made her aware of how out of touch she had become and how badly she needed to revisit some of the simpler things in life. By the time she left, several days had come to pass since she had last seen her friends in her flight over the Dales. As she was getting closer, she kept her eyes peeled for Inquisition ravens. Several came and went in one particular area and she’d difficulties deciding which to go after for information. It took bringing down seven ravens—mind, without killing them—to find anything meaningful regarding the state of the Inquisition. Apparently, they were returning from the Approach and were slowly making their way back to Skyhold. The raven was marked number four in a relay, which she realised meant it was travelling as the Inquisitor reached different areas. The very last raven would likely reach Skyhold just a day ahead of his party.

Maordrid flew south after resealing the last message and releasing the distressed raven, searching the land for signs of them. She was eager to return at last—things were finally falling into place for her people, which had given her hope. She had never been one to fall prey to that emotion, as things never quite went perfect for her, but having the reassurances of Tahiel, Elgalas, and even Shiveren had reminded her of how organised they could be when _they_ had hope.

She was glad her biggest problem at the moment was merely _how_ she should go about revealing herself to the others.

Even after a day surveying the Exalted Plains from above, she hadn’t thought of a way to do it. Maordrid eventually descended to take perch not far from Var Bellanaris upon the statue of a wolf. A few other ravens joined her on the wolf’s back but seemed wary of her. Keener animals were always harder to fool and birds could be particularly brutal if they decided they didn’t like you. Maordrid cawed and flapped at them before they could attack, scaring them off. When she settled down, ruffling her feathers, she caught sight of a herd of halla moving across the rolling hills. There were always wolves on the plains, so she figured it was a wild hunt, but then she saw someone poke their head up from behind a boulder and leap over, chasing after them. The elf reached out with a hand as the herd curved away from her, nearly brushing the last one’s flank. Another head appeared around the rocks, this one burly and broad like a blacksmith with a beard to go with it. _The Lavellans!_ she thought excitedly. The halla came toward her statue where they milled about in a twitching, distressed crowd. 

“There she is! Hanal’ghilan!” Dhrui exclaimed, pointing. Maordrid looked just to the right of the statue and saw a bizarre halla with golden fur cresting the hill. She wondered if it was some odd Dalish legend, but then remembered the weird things that Ghilan’nain had done. This must have been the descendant of one of her more graceful creations.

“Gods, I’m drunk and out of breath, Dhrui,” Yin said as they came within distance of a stone’s throw. “I definitely need a bath now.” His sister sighed, glancing wistfully at the golden halla that was looking back at them with liquid black eyes.

“’Course you do,” she finally said. “I hope you had fun, at least.” Yin laughed warmly, bending over so that he could tie his dark hair up in a bun.

“I had no idea how badly I needed that,” he said. Maordrid felt like she was intruding on something, but also didn’t want to leave.

“You’ve earned it, brother,” she said, beaming. “I’m gonna chase after Hanal’ghilan and see if I can’t lead her to Hawen’s clan. Meet you back at camp?” Yin laughed again, teeth showing.

“Be careful, Dhru. And don’t go too close to Var Bellanaris, we didn’t have a chance to clear it of demons last time,” he said. “Oh, and wolves and bandits. You know how to get back?” Maordrid had to repress a giggle at him. Fortunately, Dhrui laughed for her.

“You always say you wouldn’t have made a good Keeper, but you’re always worrying over others,” she teased. “Signs of a good Keeper!” Yin groaned.

“Don’t make me list just as many, if not more reasons why I _wouldn’t_ ,” Yin said, turning back the way they’d come.

“Right, like kissing a Vint!” she called after him. Yin made a rude gesture before he disappeared from sight, leaving Dhrui laughing to herself. When she looked back at the statue, the halla had wandered off. Dhrui sighed and instead looked up at her and the wolf. “You know, Fen, he would have stayed out all night once,” she said, talking to the statue…that Maordrid wasn’t entirely sure was actually a depiction of Fen’harel and not an Emerald Knight’s companion. “It’s okay though. He’s so busy now. So long as he doesn’t forget to actually live, right? Someone’s gotta remind him.” Dhrui walked up to the statue without any of the fear or hesitance Maordrid had come to expect of the Dalish and laid a hand on the wolf’s shoulder. The Lavellan looked up at her with curious eyes. “Wolves, ravens, halla. Are you a messenger of Dirthamen’s then? I’ve seen all the signs of the gods except for Mythal. Mother always said if I saw them all, I’d live a blessed life, but…the All-Mother eludes me. I always thought it might be because Yin and I made our vallaslin in honour of them all instead of just one. Maybe they’re jealous gods.” She looked down at her bared feet where the brand decorated her flesh in silver-blue sinuous lines, spirals, and knots. “I wonder what Mythal would appear as. A dragon, maybe?” 

“I could do a dragon for you, but I would not take that as a sign of your god.” Dhrui yelped and stumbled backward onto her arse. Maordrid cackled in raven and fluttered down off the wolf, shifting back into an elf in a plume of arcane smoke. Dhrui’s eyes went so wide they looked about to come out of her skull. 

“June’s cock, it’s you!” she exclaimed, bosom heaving. “Gods, they all thought you were dead! Fuck, _I_ was convinced you’d gone out in glory!” Maordrid helped the girl up with a slight smirk, watching as she brushed herself off. “Oh, you’re creepy, you watched us that entire time, didn’t you?”

“You wouldn’t?” Maori retorted. Dhrui cracked a grin and then laughed.

“Definitely,” she winked. The elf seemed stunned, simply staring at her in awe for a moment. “I’ve…heard so much about you since…y’know. How…how did you survive?” 

“You saw part of it now. I turned into a griffon and gave you time to escape,” she admitted. Dhrui put her hands to her head and sat back down slowly. Maordrid got on her level, sitting beside her with her legs crossed. She was in no hurry and she had a feeling they’d be there a while.

“What took you so long? Have you been following us?” she asked. Maordrid shook her head, grabbing a twig from off the ground.

“I got caught up in personal business. And when I was done, it wasn’t hard to find out where you all were. The Inquisition is diffuse and like a large net, information slips through,” she said. Dhrui squinted at her suspiciously, eyes glowing in the night. 

“More business with your elf spies? Shiv or whatever?” she asked, taking Maordrid offguard. “I’m not stupid. My brother went to spy for our Keeper—I know you’re up to something like it. What’s your game?” Maordrid looked away from her, trying to think of a proper answer. 

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple,” she settled with replying. 

“You promised me answers. I’ll promise you secrecy. And if it’s real good, maybe I’ll help you,” Dhrui said, earning a doubtful look from Maordrid. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking, child,” Maordrid said. Dhrui threw herself back on the ground with a frustrated noise. 

“Let me make this real clear for you: you’re a shapeshifter—none of the others know that because none of them even _mentioned_ it in talking about you, hence-bloody-forth, I didn’t even realise it until you pulled your raven antics. _Two,_ you speak Elvhen like you were born in ancient Elvhenan. And three? Those fucking elves that saved us were not like anything I’ve ever seen. They were organised, deadly, and powerful. You, my friend, are obviously important to them.” Maordrid sighed and glanced around the area, casting her aura out to search for eavesdroppers. The closest thing was the Dalish camp, but she wasn’t worried about them. “See? And now you’re doing _that—”_ Maordrid spun to face her, silencing the woman with a look.

“Even if I told you what I am, you wouldn’t believe me,” she hissed. “I’ve no proof other than what you’ve seen with your own eyes.” 

“Try me, _lethallin,_ ” Dhrui said, emphasising the word as she sat back up. Maordrid pressed her lips together. She had not expected to have this conversation with anyone so soon, nonetheless a woman she barely knew.

“Shiveren, my old friend, _is_ from Arlathan," she confessed in a whisper. She looked away with a resigned sigh, "And...so were all of the elves with him." Dhrui snapped her fingers.

“I knew it! Your dialect is _old._ That’s why I couldn’t translate it,” she said. “That means…shit, you’re old too, huh?” Maordrid avoided her gaze. “Gods, I may pass out. Why did I drink wine tonight?” Dhrui lay down again with a moan. “Then…you saw it. You _know_ what happened to our people—to the elves? Arlathan?” Again, Maordrid didn’t answer, but it was enough. Dhrui was silent, but even from there Maordrid thought she could hear her heart beating rapidly. 

“This isn’t something I can just…tell you over the course of a night. Over days, months, or even years. I’ve seen too much,” Maordrid said slowly.

“Oh, I can only imagine,” the young elf said. “An ancient from Elvhenan. What are you even doing hiding from us? You could help so many of my people!” Maordrid sighed, wondering if this had been a bad idea. She considered messing with the girl’s memory, or clocking her over the head with something and hoping she’d forget in the morning. “No, you couldn’t.”

“Pardon?” Maordrid asked, stirred from her murderous revelry.

“If you thought it was possible to help us, you would have a long time ago, wouldn’t you?” The lightning quick wit of the younger Lavellan was…impressive. Perhaps it was the Lavellan lineage. 

“Yes,” she finally said, “The world isn’t what it used to be. My people operate in secrecy, watching and acting where they can. The web is intricate and dripping with venom. That is why I am reluctant to share—it could mean death or worse for you.” The fire in Dhrui’s eyes was not unlike the flames that kept her own self going. Maori could feel its heat, reaching out, desperate to join with hers, to make a bigger, more brighter burning fire.

“I want to help. _Gods_ , I want to help!” she begged, then sat on her haunches, eyes widening as if in realisation, “It's fate! It brought me here not just for my brother, but to meet you!” Maordrid rubbed at her temples, studying the woman with one eye as she scooted closer. “Please, give me a chance. I’ll swear an oath—anything.” 

“Your brother will kill me,” she muttered. “He loves you, Dhrui. If you were to walk the path that I do—”

“Shiveren mentioned your stubbornness to me. How you make excuses and deflect,” Dhrui suddenly interjected. Maordrid shut her mouth abruptly. “He told me you needed help but wouldn’t tell me _how_. Someone to watch your back, I think is what he meant. Am I right?” 

“How can you say such things? Pledge yourself to a stranger? _Never again shall we submit_ —is that not a Dalish motto?” Maordrid cut in a bit harshly. “Your people have always been too quick to kneel—too quick to bend to your so-called gods in hopes that they will send just a _sign_ that they’re pleased with you. This isn’t what I fought for. It isn’t what any of us fought for.” Maordrid pushed to her feet and stalked away, willing herself to calm down. This was why even in the other timeline she had been reluctant to take on an apprentice—or even being _Commander._ She didn’t want to command anyone that viewed her as some kind of untouchable relic. She’d rather do it all herself, that way if she got herself killed, it would be her own damn fault.

A firm hand closed around her bicep, pulling her around to look into the _vallaslin_ ’d face of Dhrui.

“You fought with the Gods?” she asked, eyes wide and voice quiet. “Or…were you part of the Rebellion?” The tone of apprehension—disbelief. “Tell me, did you know Fen’harel? Did you know the other gods?” There it was. The question that spanned timelines. 

“I knew them,” she whispered, pressing a hand against the cool stone of the wolf. “They were benevolent beings in the beginning…but that did not last. They were just people that came by too much power. Their cruelty knew no bounds and they near destroyed our world. We rose, a small, pitiful uprising compared to the forces they commanded. Given more time and better numbers, perhaps the world wouldn’t be as it is now.” Maordrid closed her eyes, envisioning the great last battle high in the Frostbacks. Where her and the other rebels fought to give Fen’harel a chance to raise his Veil. “It is difficult to say if the people of the world suffer more today than they did before.” She finally gained the courage to look back at Dhrui who had been listening intently. 

“What do you fight for today?” she asked in a small voice. Maordrid half-smiled, lightly touching a hand to the girl’s hair. Looking at her made her feel her age. And somehow, it made her stronger. 

“For your lives,” she said, dropping her hand. “Although I will likely perish in doing so.” 

“See, that’s what Shiveren talked about. You’re fatalistic. That you’ve chosen not to get attached to anyone or anything other than this…suicidal drive to complete your duty,” Dhrui said in something just above a whisper. “Look, I can see it’s hard for you to even talk about this. But I want to hear everything—in time.” Maordrid chewed her lip uncertainly, wondering just how much Shiveren had told her. He’d seen something in the woman right away and had _trusted_ her. Dhrui grasped her by the shoulders in an iron grip. “Forget my brother. Forget everyone but the two of us right now. You saved my life—I’m gonna do the same for you. This is my calling and don’t you dare shit on it, you angry old elf.” 

“You believe me?” Maordrid realised. Dhrui laughed with her head tossed back.

“I don’t think it’s fully sunk in, all that you’ve said, and not all of it is stuff I was glad to hear. I’m thanking the wine for that,” Dhrui said, “But I do believe you. I wish that your people would have at least _tried._ Giving up is not how you’re going to change anything, especially in your case.” Maordrid found herself smiling. “Will you allow me to join you?”

“You still don’t even know what I’m fighting for,” Maordrid said, trying to put as much weight in her voice as she could muster. 

“I think I have an idea. You know what is going on in the world—I’ll wager you know who is behind all the chaos here in the south, otherwise you wouldn’t be at the heart of the Inquisition,” she said, again demonstrating that quick thinking. “Whatever it is, I get the sense you’re not the bad guy.” Maordrid shook her head.

“There are no _bad guys_ in this fight. The only one that must die is Corypheus—the others, I am myself doing all that I can to change their minds,” she said. “Some of my people believe this world to be an abomination that must be destroyed in order to bring back the old one.” 

“And what do you believe?” 

“I agree to an extent, as I believe there must be another way to change it without disastrous effects. We aren’t far from a solution.” Dhrui nodded enthusiastically.

“See, I knew you were brilliant,” she said, much to Maori’s flattery. “You don’t disappoint at all. The others only ever spoke highly of you.”

“Really?” she dared to ask. Dhrui grinned knowingly.

“Mhm. Speaking of which, we should go back. That’s going to be a whole ‘nother monster to tackle. But…we can continue this?” she asked. Maordrid saw no way out of it now. Shiveren had pulled the girl in close and Maordrid had all but sunk her. “Are you ever going to tell the others?” Maori felt a headache coming on and wished she had a drink. Or maybe she’d take her pipe somewhere once everything was over.

“Dorian knows…some,” she admitted. “ _Fenedhis_ , that’s going to be difficult.”

“Wait, the Vint? Of all people? Why?” Dhrui said, rather alarmed. 

“If you want to prove your mettle to me, then show me how well you can spy,” she said, watching the puzzlement come over the other woman’s face. “You might get more than you bargained for, _da’len_.” Dhrui rolled her eyes.

“No, _this_ is better than anything I could have bargained for. But I seriously want to know what the fuck _Dorian_ has to do with any of this,” she muttered, then turned on her heel. She whistled, beckoning for Maordrid to follow her. “C’mon, let’s go introduce you back to society.”

The two of them made their way toward the bathhouse with Dhrui trying to find more creative ways to ask questions in an attempt to draw answers from Maordrid. The older elf decided that Dhrui would make a worthy spy. She would never admit to Shiveren that he’d been right, or that she was beginning to consider her as a potential apprentice—should she continue to impress. Maori could only hope that she wasn’t making too rash a decision. 

“Wait, one more thing before we go in there,” Dhrui said, drawing her back by the shoulder once they’d reached the entry of the old bathhouse. Maordrid gave her a deadpan stare to try to convey her weariness. “Can you really turn into a dragon?” Maori’s laugh echoed down the stone and into the ruin. The sound of conversation below suddenly stopped. Maordrid arched her eyebrows—the only answer she was getting before descending the stairs. Dhrui said something in Antivan that she barely caught but promptly dropped as they came into sight of the camp. Blackwall, Dorian, Yin, Varric, and Cole were all looking up the stairwell, clearly having heard her laugh. When she emerged into the firelight beneath one of the arches, their faces filled with various expressions of shock. 

“Shoulda stuck around, Yin. Hanal’ghilan was actually your friend all along,” Dhrui joked, coming to stand beside her. The humour fell flat as Yin stepped forward, his face a battlefield of hurt and grief. 

“Inquisitor,” she said with a small smile, “I’m sorry I—” She was forcefully cut off as Yin engulfed her in a hug. After a moment, she hesitantly placed her hands on his back, staring up at the stars in surprise. 

“You have no idea—” Yin gasped into her hair. “—how much I worried for you.” He pulled away and finally she got a good look at his face. He’d trimmed his beard close to his face and his hair had grown out some since she’d last seen him. He’d gained some wrinkles at his eyes that she hoped were more from laughing than stress. 

“We all worried for you,” Dorian said from behind him. Yin moved to the side to allow the other mage to join. Dorian had carefully coaxed his face into an unreadable mask, but his eyes betrayed him. “You look terrible.” She cracked a smile as he drew her into a tight, but brief hug. Even Blackwall braced forearms with her and gave her a quick, awkward hug. Varric just eyed her like he’d gotten a hundred new ideas for his book.

“Feathers?” Cole asked and she nodded. He seemed content with her answer though that may have had to do with the warning she was projecting in her thoughts. She was quickly pulled away again by Yin who drew her to the fire and sat her down. The others joined as well, huddling close. Maordrid glanced around, realising something was off.

“Solas didn’t come this time?” she asked, then watched as their faces went grave.

“He did but…” Yin trailed off, pouring a cup full of wine and handing it to her. “We came here to save a friend of his. It didn’t go well. He’s mourning, I think.” Maordrid stared into the wine, beating herself up internally. If only she had kept her bloody transcript she could have done something. She vaguely remembered it being mentioned in the book.

“What happened?” she asked and she sat quietly as each and every one of them recounted the day’s events. She realised that she had been _on the Plains_ when they had likely been fighting for Wisdom’s freedom. She could have…well. It was done now.

“I can’t imagine what he’s feeling, thinking he lost two friends,” Dorian said, lounging against a log across from her. “You know, when you ran off after Yin at Haven, he nearly went after you. Bull had to hold him back.” Maordrid’s brow furrowed. “Phenomenal that you survived an avalanche, a Blighted dragon, and an ancient magister. Oh, and imprisonment.” 

“Yeah, I survived the prison too. Problem?” Dhrui defended her. Maori gestured for peace. Dorian had a right to be angry, she just hoped he wouldn’t say anything foolish.

“I should be dead. I don’t know what happened. I woke up in chains in a dark cell,” she said. “Samson interrogated me and brought blood mages in with Dhrui…and together we managed to break free. The fools drugged me with something that made my magic lash out as a side effect—I managed to get Dhrui to relative safety before I fought them off, thinking I was going to die anyway. Fortunately, I lost them, then collapsed. I spent most of my time recovering and trying to find you.”

“Took out a small army, you did,” Blackwall rumbled. She shook her head.

“Only some of the men. They must have been messing with something else while they were interrogating me, because when we were escaping they were fighting off demons,” she said. Yin’s hand fell on her shoulder comfortably.

“I don’t really care what you did to escape. You’re safe and so is Dhrui and for that I’m indebted to you. But for future reference, don’t you dare come after me again,” Yin said. She smiled and raised her cup to toast against his. The others cheered and raised their own cups happily. Eventually, they lapsed into their old ways of exchanging stories and things, catching her up to all that had happened. But after a long day for them all, they collectively decided to retire. Maordrid ended up in Dhrui’s tent, reeling with wine and wonder. She hadn’t thought she’d miss staring up at the canvas ceiling, but when she laid down to rest, she found herself feeling safe for the first time in too long.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Exurgency by Zoë Keating. One of my all time favourite musicians. It's just all too perfect a name for this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3qKvKypi4g)


	45. The One Who Got Away

_~~Earlier~~_

  


When Yin walked back into camp, he immediately grabbed his pack from his tent and sneaked off to the river, eager for some time alone. The walls of the bathhouse provided some privacy from the camp and eyes up and downriver. The first night they had stayed there, he had gone into the Fade in hopes of seeing what the bathhouse had looked like in the height of its glory, but had been disappointed to find that part of the Fade muddied by too many memories. Yin set his things down unceremoniously and got to peeling off armour and underclothes quickly, cursing in rapid Antivan when the brisk night air kissed his skin. He grabbed a few large rocks from nearby and drew glyphs on them then placed them in the water near where he wanted to bathe. 

He spent the next few minutes scrubbing his soiled clothes in the water and then waded in himself after that was all done, relishing the pocket of warmth provided by the stones. There were many downsides to being an elven mage, but being able to heat his own water was something he would never take for granted. It was well worth the struggles that came with it. After scrubbing himself with a small rock, he sat staring up at the stars, taking a few deep breaths before plunging into the water beyond his glyphs. It immediately became cold and dark, yet thrilled his every sense. He grabbed a heavy rock at the bottom and sat anchored, surrounded by black water. The Mark illuminated the area eerily, which gave him the idea to summon different coloured magelights and sent them to bob and float around him. Little white river stones glowed in the light, making him feel as though he were amongst a field of stars. Something about it seemed lonely despite how tranquil the underwater world felt. After a minute had gone by, he decided to return to the surface out of a sense of sadness more than his need for air.

“Swimming naked in the moonlight, I see?” Yin spun in the water to see Dorian sitting quite poised on the shore with his flask in hand. “What was that? The trick with magelights?” Yin floated in the water, not sure whether he should emerge or stay there.

“I was just being silly,” he said. “Your timing is uncanny.” Dorian waved a hand languidly. Squinting, he saw a faint darkening—or lightening?—of Dorian’s cheeks.

“I just thought I’d enjoy the view,” he said. Yin laughed to cover his surprise and tried to find a way to best approach getting out of the water. Sensitive areas were getting cold. He decided going somewhat downstream would be best. Slowly he treaded his way to the shore, eyes occasionally flicking over to his company, unable to tell if Dorian was watching or not. On an internal count of three, he rose from the water, covering his glory bits and picking his way awkwardly back toward his belongings. “The Inquisitor swimming naked out in the wilderness? What would the world think?”

“They already think me a savage Dalish abomination,” Yin joked as he stooped to grab something to cover himself. Dorian was still peering out at the waters. “You came out here to look and yet you aren’t.” Dorian turned his head slowly. Yin kept the cloth covering himself, just enough to give him an idea. “Now, would they say that a naked Dalish savage attacked a human noble, had his way with him, then fled into the night?” He prowled closer, placing himself in front of Dorian who peered up at him with amusement. “Or would they say a ruthless but devilishly handsome Tevinter mage bewitched an unknowing elf into a night of carnal activities?” 

“Depends on what part of the world you’re in,” Dorian said, dragging his eyes along his wet form. Yin smirked and rose, turning away to put his breeches on.

“Is there something on your mind, Dorian?” he asked as he tied the laces. 

“Ah, yes. Something has been scratching at the back of my mind since Griffon Wing Keep,” he said, voice still light and airy. 

“Go on,” Yin said, facing him.

“Maordrid—do you…or did you have feelings for her?” Yin’s heart dropped like a stone. “It’s fine, if you do. Did. Whatever.” 

“I would be lying if I said I hadn’t,” he forced himself to say. Dorian looked up at him from the ground, eyes glassy in the moonlight.

“And pray tell, what do you want, Lord Inquisitor?” he asked softly, taking a draw off of his flask. 

“I would hope that was obvious given our recent activities,” Yin said, losing the heat that had previously had him ignited. He snatched a shirt up from his bag and slipped it on. 

“Would things be different—”

“What, if she was still alive?” Yin laughed. “I don’t think that’s a fair question to ask, Dorian.”

“Isn’t it?” The other man rose unsteadily. “That I shouldn’t worry that I may be stepping on someone else’s toes? Someone we both care for?” Yin turned on him, hurting.

“ _Ar nuven ma,”_ he said, much to the other man’s confusion. He took a deep breath, grabbed his things, and started walking back. “I’ll leave the choice to you.” 

This time, Dorian didn’t follow.

Back at camp, Blackwall was seated before the fire looking bored.

“You look doused,” the Warden said, bushy brows lifting. “And not in a good way.” Varric looked up from his journal, pen pausing above the paper.

“You could certainly say that,” Yin muttered, throwing his things into his tent and settling down across from him. “’Fraid I don’t have anything juicy for you yet, Varric. Probably won’t.” The dwarf gave a theatrical sigh and resumed writing. He noticed Blackwall was carving something that looked vaguely like a tiny nug with wings. “What’s that?” Yin laughed. The visible part of Blackwall’s cheeks turned pink, but to his credit he didn’t stop carving.

“Oh, nothin’. I get some weird ideas during these journeys,” Blackwall said. Yin knew that was a white lie, but he didn’t press him as Dorian came through one of the arches looking more drunk than he had seen him. The flask in his hand was uncapped and hanging upside down in his hand. _Oh no._

“Dhrui isn’t back yet?” Yin quickly asked Varric who shook his head.

“Give her some time, Charmer. You’ve been a proper, smothering big brother since she’s been with us,” he said, fluttering a hand at him. Dorian came plopped down beside Blackwall as though he were not even there.

“I think this is the first time Dorian has smelled of anything other than expensive perfumes. Didja fall into a barrel of wine while you were out?” Blackwall smirked. The two of them had been at each other’s throats recently, but Yin had been hoping it was nothing but a bit of cutting banter. 

“It’s my fault,” Yin said.

“You’re apologising for him being a drunkard?” Blackwall laughed. 

“ _Yess_ , you’re apologising?” Dorian slurred, sitting down. Yin’s fingers curled in on themselves. “I’m the one whoo’ss clearly mistaken.” 

“I don’t think we should be having this conversation here, Dorian,” Yin said, keeping his eyes on the fire. Dorian leaned back, squinting drunkenly.

“ _Oh_ , he’s putting on his Inquisitor face. Very well then, I shall put my thoughts and feelings on hold until it is convenient for him,” he said. Yin was about to snap back at him when suddenly a feminine laugh echoed down from the entryway of the bathhouse. They all turned their heads toward the noise. _Impossible._

“ _It’s been so long, will they accept me?_ Worn within, thin and threadbare, like a cloth forgotten in sun and sand,” Cole said, appearing beside him. “ _But for them I’m strong as steel.”_ Just as he said that, the shadows moved and a small ghost emerged. His sister came to stand beside it with a smug look on her face. Dhrui said something that he didn’t hear over the roar of blood in his ears.

“Inquisitor,” the ghost—no, Maori said, a smile faltering on her face. Yin got to his feet, mind spinning. “I’m sorry I—” He’d crossed the span of ground between them in the blink of an eye, pulling her into his arms, wondering if it were some cruel trick of the Fade. He buried his face in her hair, laughing softly, thanking Falon’din silently for letting her go.

“You have no idea how much I worried for you,” he gasped. She embraced him tightly with a small laugh of her own before he released her. 

“We _all_ worried for you,” Dorian said, casting a look at him. “You look terrible.” He couldn’t help but smile when Dorian, still drunk, pulled her into a hug, then even Blackwall. Yin quickly moved them to the campfire where they all indulged in what little wine they had left as Maori filled them in briefly on what had happened to her. Then they took their turns asking questions and describing important events that had happened in her absence. The woman looked understandably exhausted after a while and although Yin was far from satisfied talking to her, he was the one to call for rest. Maori gave him a grateful look and at Dhrui’s invitation, retired to her tent. Before she went, he caught Blackwall handing his sister the little nug he’d been working on all night. He couldn’t say whether he was happy or concerned for her, but Dhrui’s glee brought a smile to his face as she pecked the Warden on the cheek and then rushed into the tent to show Maordrid. Blackwall walked away standing a little taller with rosy cheeks and satisfaction on his face.

Yin sighed and crawled into his tent, feeling as though the events of that day hadn’t really happened. He wondered if living in a perpetual state of disbelief was bad for his health. It was some time before sleep finally came to him, but when it did he couldn’t wait for the morning to come.


	46. Return to Skyhold

The next morning, Maordrid woke with a start to snoring and when she tried to move her limbs found that they were pinned beneath something soft and warm. In her sleep, Dhrui had wedged herself under her arm and entangled her legs and arms with her own. As soon as she tried to move, the other elf growled.

“Just a little longerrrr,” Dhrui mumbled. Maordrid sighed, glaring up at the tent, but couldn’t deny that it was…nice. It was that thought that made her cast an ice spell to wake the younger elf. Dhrui only grumbled and rolled over, taking the fur blankets with her as she went. “You’re no fun.” Then she was sound asleep again. Maordrid shook her head and quickly threw her mediocre armour on before emerging from the tent. Yin was outside already awake and sipping on tea by the morning fire. He smiled at her brightly.

“I was praying that last night hadn’t been a dream,” he said, quickly filling a mug for her. 

“I have to remind myself that it isn’t,” she agreed, accepting it. Yin glanced back toward the tent at the sound of another irritated growl from his sister.

“I hope she didn’t near-strangle you in her sleep,” Yin laughed. 

“Close. Do you speak from experience?” she asked. 

“Her and my brother Raj used to share a bed. Limited space in the aravels,” he explained, “As soon as he was old enough he arranged to sleep in a different aravel with the hunters.” Maordrid laughed. 

“She’s not that bad,” she said, rolling her shoulders. Yin was still smiling at her when the others in camp began to emerge from their dens. Surprisingly, Dorian was last to do so with an obvious hangover. But even he perked up when she approached and offered him a cup of tea. 

After they all had breakfast and a cup to drink, they arranged for Maordrid to take turns riding behind each of them as they quickly found that Solas’ hart, Alas’nir, refused to let her on his back. So, she started with Yin when they departed the baths and made their way at a comfortable pace in the direction of Skyhold. Everyone was ecstatic to tell her about the glorious keep they had found after Haven and how more and more people had been arriving to join the cause.

“Damn, I just realised something,” Yin said, interrupting the rare moment of silence. “They’ll all want to throw a small celebration when we get back. You know, I’ll bet even Cullen will hug you.” Maordrid flushed with embarrassment, glad her face was hidden by his back.

“Why? What have I done other than complicate matters?” she asked in honesty. 

“If it hadn’t been for you, my sister wouldn’t be here,” he said and Dhrui agreed aloud. “And…you’re considered a friend to most everyone.” 

“I won’t forget what you’ve done for me,” Dhrui said, making eye contact with her. Maordrid couldn’t help but feel the guilt she had yesterday for failing Solas, though. She wondered just how much Wisdom’s death impacted his view of the world and of the future. Still, her heart ached for him. At midday, she rode on the back of Dorian’s horse and although they had passed beyond the Dales, she found herself scanning the land for other people. Well, a certain person. She was let down, though that shouldn’t have been a surprise.

Eventually they entered the mountains upon a hidden road whose secrecy had been kept by ancient enchantments laid within it. That meant Skyhold wasn’t far, since the Keep itself had been magically obscured in its early days to discourage invaders. 

The closer they got, the more frayed her nerves became. Cole helped some in his curious way, telling her she would find a home there because no one remembered her from the last time. Fortunately, the boy seemed to be catching on to her need for secrecy and only spoke to her when she was at a distance from the others. His reassurance did soothe her.

As they rode up the path toward the castle, a reedy horn was blown signalling their arrival. Maordrid must have stiffened behind Dhrui, as the woman chuckled quietly and glanced over her shoulder.

“Nervous, old woman?” she whispered as the horse began to cross the bridge.

“Is that a surprise?” she muttered, scouring the battlements where people had begun to accumulate. She didn’t see what she was looking for and brought her gaze back down to the back of Dhrui’s head.

“I just thought being so old emotions would have worn out their intensity,” the girl teased. 

“You think your emotions are intense?” Maordrid said, finding herself grinning mischievously. “Remind me to show you how we once expressed our emotions in my time.”

“Trust me, I have a lot of things I want you to show me.” They ceased their conversation as they passed beneath the portcullis and into the lower courtyard. Maordrid slipped off of Dhrui’s horse in an attempt to avoid attention, but Yin was onto her like a hawk on a mouse, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her with him. 

“Is that who I think it is?” a loud, jolly voice called from above. Maordrid tried not to hunch in on herself as Bull called to anyone who would listen. In the upper courtyard, most of the Inquisition members had come to gather. Yin held her close with a beaming smile.

“Guess I owe Varric, dammit,” Sera said with a flub of her lips. The rogue dwarf laughed and presented his palm. “But _she_ owes me arrows.” 

“Varric owes me!” Bull laughed, catching his small sack of payment. Several loud and protesting exchanges went around while she looked on in amusement. She was even surprised to see Varric toss a pouch up to Lady Vivienne who was standing at the top of the steps.

“What were the terms?” Maordrid asked Varric.

“Your survival, of course,” the dwarf grinned. Maori glanced back at Vivienne but the woman had already disappeared.

“She bet…for me?” 

“Right? Can you believe it?” Varric laughed, catching another pouch from Blackwall.

“She’s never even seen me fight. I think we’ve spoken once?” She narrowed her eyes at the dwarf. “You’ve been spinning stories about me, haven’t you, Master Tethras?” He shrugged unapologetically.

“What do you expect us to do? We’re all stuck here safe in the castle when we’re not out with Charmer. Gets a bit boring, y’know?” Varric patted her arm. “Glad you’re back, Nightshade.” Iron Bull approached her next, looking awkward for all his girth.

“I know we weren’t on the best of terms, but…”

“You like a verbal beat down?” she mused, spirits too high to spit any venom at the Qunari. “We could try something more your style later. I see there’s a practice yard.” Bull’s eye widened and a grin crept across his face. 

“Let’s see what you got, Mao,” Bull said, pounding a fist into his palm. She smiled and turned to greet the others—Sera of which giggled and punched her in the arm.

“Thought you didn’t like me,” Maori said. 

“Eh, you’re all right. Better than Solas, yeah. I tried that trick with the rotten egg hidden in a bookshelf. Had everyone retching for a few days. Everyone is suspicious of eggs now!” The young elf laughed again and then melded in with the small crowd as Cullen appeared coming down the steps. Maordrid bowed to him, which he returned with a smile. 

“It seems too good to be true,” Cullen said to Yin who chuckled.

“I know. And I think we should spend more time appreciating everyone. There’s no knowing if someone else might be taken from us prematurely,” Yin said. 

“I agree, Inquisitor. Shall we all have drinks at the Herald’s Rest tonight?” the Commander asked. Dorian gasped behind them in the crowd.

“The Commander of the Inquisition doing something other than working? I thought I’d never see the day!” he said. Cullen’s golden eyes settled back on her, still smiling.

“I can afford the time for a friend,” he said. 

“I think first, I’d like a proper bath,” she chimed in. Cullen bowed graciously and excused himself, but not before making her vow to be at the tavern later. Plenty more greetings went around, followed by a few delayed hugs from others—one surprisingly from Josie who was ecstatic to see her again. 

“We shall find you a room! I believe there are several open overlooking the garden, if you like. We are also working on building a tower for the mages. Oh! And there is an abandoned tower just across from the mage’s…although it has not been cleaned up, I’m afraid—” Maordrid squeezed her arm gratefully.

“I will take the empty tower, if no one has any objections. I’ll fix it up myself, too,” she said. Josie smiled prettily and jotted something down. 

“Is there anything you need the Inquisition to provide, Lady Maordrid?” she asked. 

“Tools to fix it. Perhaps a blanket for tonight?” Josephine gasped as if personally affronted.

“You do not plan on sleeping in that tower tonight without a bed, do you?” she asked. “There _is_ the Herald’s Rest—”

“It isn’t much of an inn, dear,” Yin told Josephine. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Maordrid assured her. “I do not want to be in the way of your duties.”

“We’ll figure it out, Josie,” Yin said.

“Very well. I _do_ have a dinner to arrange for our returned warrior!” Josephine said, all smiles. Yin clapped Maordrid on the back and continued pulling her up the stairs into the grand hall. At the entry, she had to stop and take it all in. She remembered what it had looked like in the olden days and her mind was trying to juxtapose the present day image with her memory of it. There didn’t seem to be just one overall theme, but many. She saw Dalish, Antivan, Orlesian, and Ferelden decorations. Even a few Qunari and Tevinter. He was trying to make everyone feel welcomed. 

“Splendid, isn’t it?” Yin said, casting a proud gaze about the hall. “It’s our new home. All ours!” Maordrid offered a weak smile. “Well, I’m off to the war room. They’ll be awaiting a full report. We didn’t do half the things we said we would—Sahrnia, Forbidden Oasis. Next time we’re in the region, I suppose.” Yin waved to her and walked off with his bag over his shoulder, leaving her by the entryway. She decided to go have a look at the tower and see just what repairs it would need. 

If she recalled correctly, there was a way to it through a door to the right of the main hall. As she walked through it, she came into a rotunda and was immediately stopped again at the sight of familiar murals sprawling across the round walls. They seemed to be detailing the recent events in beautiful symbolism—until she saw the wolves. It was as if he was leaving them bread crumbs to his identity. It was not enough to reveal him, but she found it curious. 

She passed through the next door and came upon the bridge she had been looking for, progressing forward and opening a door on the other side to what appeared to be someone’s office. No one was present, so she moved on through to the right where Josephine had pointed and eventually came upon the squat little tower just up a flight of stairs from the tavern. From there, she had a view of nearly everything. She would have certainly liked a room above the garden, but the position of the tower provided more privacy for various reasons. 

Inside, the place was riddled with debris, but there didn’t seem to be any damage she couldn’t handle herself. Just inside the door someone had already brought her a toolkit. She sighed, wondering where to start when she noticed a ladder in a corner and realise there was a small second level—a loft of sorts, and above that was a trapdoor to the top of the tower.

“This will certainly do,” she said to herself, pleased with her choice. Maordrid removed her armour by the door, rolling up her sleeves to begin her work. She spent the next hour removing heavy broken boards and rubble from the main area with magic, tossing it over the side of the mountain—making sure no one was below, first, of course—and when that was done, set to removing the old rotten structures that remained. Fortunately, the loft didn’t call for any repairs, as the wood held strong enchantments to protect it. All that was left was to furnish it and add some lighting, which she remedied by opening the trapdoor and allowing light and fresh air to flood the area. 

She was busy cleaning the window and considering ways she could widen it when the door opened behind her. 

“You give the Inquisition soldiers a run for their gold, I see,” a man coughed behind her. She turned to see Dorian in one of the doorways. She did not fail to see the familiar book clutched in his hand. “Is this where you’ve decided to roost?”

“It’s out of the way, it’s private…and if anyone needs me, they know where to find me easily,” she said. His gaze was something she was not unfamiliar with. He had not spoken much to her on their travel back to Skyhold. She knew wisely not to press the reason, as she very well knew _why_ he’d avoided her. And now they were alone.

“It’s funny how certain truths can utterly change your view of the world,” he mused, stepping into the tower and closing the door. “They see your willingness to stay out of the way as part of your charm.”

“And what do you see?” she asked, failing to repress a sour smirk.

“A spy and a liar,” he said, lifting the book in his hand. She leaned against the window as he came to stand before her. “You were the griffon, weren’t you?” 

“Yes,” she replied and he nodded, looking away as though that was the final piece to the puzzle he needed.

“Everything in here—it’s true then, isn’t ?” he said, thumbing through to one of the marked pages. “Some of this is in my handwriting. It has my seal, my voice, even. I tried to reason that somehow you found a very good impressionist—that you have some sick objective to manipulate me.” He turned the book to her and shook it, face contorting with emotion. “There are entries from all of them. How could you have faked that? Vivienne? Blackwall, even Sera!” She carefully removed the book from his grasp and very slowly warded the room against eavesdroppers.

“How much did you read, Dorian?” she asked calmly. 

“A page or two more than what you marked,” he admitted. “They were written by…me.” He sighed and turned away, scrubbing his hands down his face. “This was much easier when I was rehearsing in my head.”

“Start with answering what you actually believe,” she said. He nodded and dug into a pocket, removing two objects. 

“You acquired these, which is the only reason I teeter on the edge of belief and…calling you a madwoman,” he said. “This voice crystal has only been a thought in my mind. To see it built and perfected with _my_ magical signature inside?” He shook his head. “When I asked rather jokingly if I knew you back in Redcliffe, you answered _in another life._ That was true, wasn’t it.”

“Yes,” she said. 

“And he sent you back,” he said, turning again. “You conveniently left out any part that explained why. Was that on purpose?” 

“Why didn’t you just read from the beginning? You had the means to. All of the answers are in there,” she said. 

“Perhaps I should have,” he admitted. “I still want to. But I also know how much conflict those few pages brought me alone. I needed to hear it from you and after reading that you’ve travelled through time to get here, I knew a simple avalanche wasn’t going to stop you.” 

“But what if it had?” 

“I would have waited one more month before reading it all.” He glanced around the empty space of her new tower with a sigh. “I believe you owe me an explanation.” She nodded and prepared to do so, except her wards sang softly as someone approached. With a wave of her hand, she dispelled the magic and opened the door at the expected knock. On the other side was Dhrui Lavellan.

“Holding secret meetings without me?” the girl mused, stepping inside and closing the door. Dorian eyed them both.

“She knows?” he exclaimed.

“Would you like to hear the real story of how we escaped that dreadful keep?” Dhrui snorted, sitting down comfortably on the stone. “It’s not as badass as Maordrid taking out an entire force of enemies, but it was pretty close.” Dorian gaped. “Whoa, settle down loverboy. There’s a lot to unpack here. I’m here to help.” The remaining two took seats against the wall and Maordrid tried to decide what to keep to herself and what to give. She ended up describing to both of them that her organisation had watched the Inquisition from its birth until its death in her timeline. Upon learning of her time travelling origins, Dhrui looked like she wanted to burst but had patience enough to keep quiet. Maordrid explained what she had to Dhrui about ancient elves—of which she had to delve into the lore of the elven gods to Dorian—and how they had failed the world with their greed. Dorian asked more questions than Dhrui had, mostly about his concern about history being wrong and how Tevinter would take it upon learning the truth. He was overwhelmed to learn that his ancestors hadn’t been responsible for the downfall of the elves—Dhrui was silent. _It was our own people._

She told them that the Inquisition had been disbanded in her timeline for fear of corruption and infiltration of spies while they searched for a way to save the world from the threat. She had not yet told them about the Veil or Fen’harel in detail, but that would come soon.

“But what could possibly threaten the world more than Corypheus? An ancient magister literally trying to tear a hole into the next world?” Dorian demanded.

“Someone more ancient with more knowledge. And a lot of patience,” she said. 

“Why avoid answering the question? Is that not the sole purpose of your return? To prevent the future from happening?” Dorian asked.

“Yes and no. I can’t tell you everything now. But I swear to you, in time I will,” she said, “I hadn’t exactly planned to reveal this so soon, but I acted foolishly in Haven and feared what would happen if I fell.” The two mortals exchanged wary glances.

“What exactly _had_ you planned?” Dorian asked. “If not to save Yin?” 

“That orb Corypheus carries belongs to the person that started this all,” she said. “They wanted Corypheus to rip open the Fade and to die in the process, leaving the orb to be reclaimed. I planned to take it somewhere safe, far from here where me and my people could plan the next steps to stopping a mass wipe out of most living things.” She peered down at her hands in shame. “I’m sorry I’m not the heroic defender you all believe me to be, going back to save Yin.” 

“Oi, well, if any of this is true…you left your world to help ours. That’s admirable,” Dhrui said. “And it sounds like Yin survived without your intervention in the other timeline, so, I forgive you.”

“Everything she said _is_ true.” Both the women looked at Dorian in surprise. “There was an entry addressed to me…from myself,” he seemed to struggled under their gazes, but continued with a shuddering breath, “It detailed several events that had already happened and some that would come to pass. I, of course, watched religiously for signs that they would happen.”

“And?” Dhrui asked.

“Every single one came to pass. Including meeting with my father,” he said. “Even some of the words he had said were written down.” They were all silent, stewing in their thoughts. “It happened with the others a few times. That’s when I knew. You need our help, don’t you? That book isn’t enough—you’re still only one person.” Maori nodded once.

“Without you, none of this would have been possible,” she said. “And with you now, I believe we can do this. There is time.”

“Literally. There’s a man sitting right in front of us that has successfully figured out how to turn back time,” Dhrui said. “Not half-bad, Vint.” Dorian shook his head.

“There’s no telling how your arrival may have affected the fabric of the world. For all we know, sending someone back again could make everything unstable.”

“Hopefully it would never come to that,” Maori cut in. 

“ _Kaffas_. That means you know everything that is about to happen?” he asked.

“I know what I know in addition to the book,” she said, “So, yes.” Dorian nodded, then shook a finger in thought.

“When you came here…that means there should be another version of yourself somewhere,” he said. “Do you know what happened to her?” Maordrid shook her head.

“No, my Dorian had planned for that, but I’m not sure how. He didn’t explain much of the theory behind it,” she said. “My people seemed to think I had died at the Conclave, so maybe it did work.” 

“Anything is possible, I suppose. Do you plan on telling anyone else?” Dorian asked. She shook her head.

“That means hiding this from Yin. He is Inquisitor—all eyes and ears are on him,” she warned both of them. “I know it is asking a lot from you, but can I ask for your trust and silence?”

“I already told you I’m with you,” Dhrui insisted stubbornly. “It’s my brother, but I understand the risks involved.” Only Dorian remained staring between them, looking numb.

“It’s a lot to take in, but I think it’s all making sense,” he finally said. “I suppose I’m simply uncomfortable with the prospect that the Inquisition is already crawling with other spies. No offence.” 

“None taken, although one of the best things you can do is be yourself, silly as it sounds. These people believe this world is not worth saving—we have to show them that there is beauty within it,” she said. “ _I_ will continue my work.” Dorian was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“Believe it or not, I am more in awe that I’m sitting before an ancient being. One that isn’t riddled with lyrium and completely mad,” he said. 

“That’s what I thought too!” Dhrui exclaimed, pushing his shoulder. “You probably ran into the first of the Lavellans!” Dhrui gasped, “Could we even be related?”

“I don’t know. Doubtful,” she answered truthfully. Her past was…complicated. She wasn’t even exactly sure of her own origins. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Well, I’ll be your family,” Dhrui said. Dorian laughed.

“You are something else,” he told her, then looked out the window. “I imagine they will be expecting us all at dinner and then the tavern soon. Especially you, Maori.” Dorian gave her a once over as they got to their feet, dusting themselves off. “Woman, do you have _any_ other clothes?” She shook her head abashed. “You can’t go to the gathering looking and smelling like that. You’ll lose all the friends you just made.” 

“Oh, oh! Josephine gave me some clothes when I arrived. They might be a bit long for you, but it’s better than what you have,” Dhrui said, picking at her worn sleeve. “Was the armour any different in your day? What about the clothes?” 

“The Orlesians pale in comparison to the Elvhen style…and the armour is incomparable. I wish I could wear a set without absolutely blowing my cover,” she said as they walked out as a group. 

“If you ask me quite nicely, I could cover for you and say it was a gift I had commissioned and sent from Tevinter,” Dorian offered, but Maori declined.

“As I said, it would draw too much attention,” she said. “Elvhen armour was not exactly…subtle.” 

“So, Dori, excited to get drunk and sneak off with my brother tonight?” Dhrui asked suddenly. Maordrid’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Dorian’s face, however, grew stormy. “Oh come on, don’t pretend like I don’t know.” 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said. “Actually. Maori, may I ask you something—alone?” Dhrui rolled her eyes and said she’d meet her at the bathhouse with clothes, leaving them alone on the battlements. 

“Did something happen?” she asked. Dorian huffed.

“I had hoped there was something in the book that would illuminate…well, my future…uhm…” he trailed off, cheeks reddening in the sunset.

“You and Yin?” she finished, carefully composing her face. He nodded curtly, avoiding her eyes. “There’s a reason why there isn’t anything in it, my friend. There are parts of the future we wish to control, but who we choose to love and bond with was not something they decided should be dictated.”

“What does… _ar nuven ma_ mean?” She smiled.

“Roughly, ‘ _I want you’.”_ Dorian blushed even deeper, but that sad look in his eyes faded away as he looked toward the grand hall of the castle. “I’ve no place in this but…go to him, Dorian.” He nodded and took a step forward, then paused and swung around, giving her a tight hug.

“You make me entirely too mushy inside,” he said, stepping back. “And while I’m not certain all your revelations have actually hit me in fullness…I am very glad you are back with us.” She smiled and pushed him away. 

“Go. I will see you at dinner.” He nodded and they parted ways. She was quite overdue for a decent soak in hot water.


	47. Ar nuven ma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a shorty.  
> Things are about to ramp up real quick-like.

Yin was impressed by how quick Josephine managed to pull together an impromptu feast for them. He was glad to see that she had closed it off to anyone that wasn’t one of his companions. Of course, the Chargers had been invited. It wasn’t a party without them anyway. He didn’t blame Vivienne for sitting up on her balcony away from the flying bits of food that several of them had taken to throwing playfully about the tables. Poor Josie was off to the side rubbing her temples, clearly regretting her decision to invite them into the halls while Leliana tried with poorly hidden amusement to console her. 

And then there was Cassandra, his lovely, innocent warrior, who was trying to subtly talk to him about Varric’s books over a plate of rosemary-truffle roast. They shared a love over the smut he wrote. He’d caught her reading in a corner of the gardens a little earlier, hiding Swords and Shields behind another book cover titled _Fade and Spirits Mysterious_ by Brother Genitivi. He’d taken too much delight in slowly torturing her about it. Even now, he laughed to himself. She had initially said she was reading reports from Cullen then when he pointed out the cover, immediately threatened his life. That was until he had quoted several lines from Swords and Shields, not stopping until she was blushing deeper than the roses in the garden. After that, they sat together and took turns reading aloud, although she ended up making him read more because she liked the way his accent sounded. 

“Yin…I can’t stop thinking about the last chapter,” she gushed, eyes darting back and forth along the table in a paranoid fashion. Yin leaned back in his chair as he took a sip of wine. “Perhaps…you could get Varric drunk and _threaten_ him into writing the rest of it!” He raised a brow, licking his lips. Cassandra seemed to run what she had just said back through her head and immediately sat back herself looking panicked. Yin just laughed. “You _do_ want to know what happens to the Knight-Captain, right?”

“Yes! Of course I do!” he said. 

“Then…then tell him you have to know!” she whispered. He couldn’t hold back his laughter, which only served to make her both angrier and desperate to make him stop. “I should have laced your drink with something to make you forget.”

“You could always tie me up, tear my clothes a little, then _demand_ I retrieve the next instalment while slowly straddl—” Cassandra lunged forward, throwing her hand across his mouth to stop him.

“You’re insufferable!” she hissed, sitting back immediately when she drew stares. She threw a glare at Varric who was looking at her suspiciously from the other end of the table. 

“No, my dear, I’m just Antivan,” he cooed. “I thought the interrogation techniques in that book were quite sound. If you ever want to test out their effectiveness in real life, I’m your man.” Cassandra threw her hands up and jumped out of the chair, leaving him giggling to himself. He would _definitely_ be talking to Varric soon.

After she left, no one else filled her seat which left him without a conversation partner. Ordinarily, he’d sit and talk to Dorian about all sorts of things. But he had been avoiding him since the night on the Dales. And now Dorian was sitting at a separate table joking with Iron Bull, Sera, and even Blackwall. Jealousy was an ugly feeling, one he had avoided as much as possible in his lifetime. His mother had taught him long ago that people could not be controlled—but _he_ could control himself and his feelings. _Worry and jealousy get you nowhere, so why allow them to grow in your heart when we could have things like happiness and compassion, hijo? Learn from the bad and be grateful for the good._ The bad was obvious. The good…? He was glad to have met all of the wonderful people he had. He was happy they were all alive. 

He became acutely aware of how long he had been staring when Dorian suddenly broke eye contact with someone to look over. Then, he smiled at him. Yin glanced around, convinced he was smiling at someone else, but when he looked back Dorian was getting to his feet. People were beginning to finish their meals and announce a migration to the tavern. He found himself being pulled from his seat by an enthusiastic Varric and Dhrui at his flanks, both of who were insisting he needed to lighten up. 

Ahead of them walked Cullen and Maordrid side by side.

“Since when did they get along?” Yin wondered aloud. 

“Why wouldn’t they? Cullen’s as handsome as they come—she’s pretty and just on the edge of too serious?” Dhrui made kissing noises that Maordrid definitely heard but ignored. 

“Maybe I’d misjudged her preferences,” Yin said mildly, thinking of Solas. Varric guffawed.

“Same! I was guessing she’d go for a brooder like Blackwall or Solas. I’d almost introduce her to my friend Fenris if he was around,” Varric said as they came into the tavern. “Anyway, I have bets on that too. Gotta go oversee a few of them now! Cheers, kids.” The dwarf took his leave and Dhrui seemed torn between staying with him and going her own way until Yin gestured for her to begone. She smiled and sauntered off in direction of the bar where a few of their friends were already antagonising Cabot.

“Time to get piss drunk,” he sighed and followed his sister to the bar.

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Yin lost track of time after his second drink and at some point, Vyr Hawke showed up and kegs were pulled out. The Champion pulled nearly all of the attention to herself just by being present. 

He was about to devour a ripe peach when someone slid onto the bench beside him and put a hand on his thigh. When he turned in alarm, he was shocked to see Dorian.

“What was it you said to me? _Ar nuven ma_?” he whispered into his ear. Yin instantly felt a rush of heat and all previous worries melted in its wake. Dorian’s cheeks were flushed considerably and his breath smelled of whatever ale he had been drinking. Yin sighed and leaned away.

“I think you’re drunk, Dorian,” he murmured but the Altus straightened in his seat and retracted his hand. 

“Have I read you wrong? Should I desist?” Yin wondered if his own judgement was impaired or if they had really just been in a misunderstanding the entire time.

“No! Anything but!” An uneven smile spread across Dorian’s lips.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “Now, how about we take a bottle to ourselves and—”

“Get away? I know just the place.” Yin slid from the bench and helped Dorian to his feet, glancing around the crowd as he did so. They all seemed preoccupied with Hawke—Maordrid was nowhere to be found, so perhaps she had escaped as well—so slipping out unnoticed was no challenge. Yin’s skin felt electrified as he watched Dorian out of the corner of his eye. So many thoughts swirled through his mind, ones he thought he should give voice to but his tongue was thick in his mouth.

They climbed the steps of his tower like two giggling boys sneaking into a sweet-filled kitchen at night, making jokes that wouldn’t have been funny if they were sober. When they emerged into his chambers, Dorian spun in a wide circle, taking it all in.

“You know…we’ve flirted and kissed and all that,” he said, unbuckling his cloak and tossing it over the back of a chair. “Which, for a kissless virgin would be positively thrilling. And while I _am_ thrilled...I'm weary of the taste of vanilla.” Yin leaned against his desk as he sauntered closer.

“I could go for some whisky and spiced chocolate. Perhaps involve some silken scarves?” Yin mused, relishing the devious grin on the Tevinter’s face. Dorian stroked his moustache as he stalked around him, light on his feet despite how heavily they’d been drinking.

“I do love the way you think," Dorian said. "Now, why don’t we dispense with this…dancing around one another and move onto something more primal?” Hot breath grazed the side of his neck, yet there was no contact between them. Yin felt about to burst out of his skin with want. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, spinning to capture Dorian’s hips with his hands.

“I like playing hard to get.” Yin pushed him up onto his desk, still holding him.

“And now?” he breathed, finally feeling like he could smile. Dorian lifted his Marked hand and kissed the centre, drawing a small gasp of pleasure from Yin.

“I’ve been gotten,” he said, and captured his lips. And primal it was. Dorian nipped at his lips and fought with his tongue while he tangled his hands in his hair. He quickly abandoned that in favour of undressing Yin. But Dorian gave no regards for his shirt, tearing it off at the neck so that he could dive at the skin beneath. Yin laughed, stumbling back as the man jumped off of his desk and steered him toward the bed with practised maneuvers of feet and hands. He let his lover push him playfully onto the silken sheets of his bed and climb over him, slowly releasing all of the straps and buckles at his chest. Yin helped him to speed up the process, flicking them away with bits of magic, earning a charming little laugh from Dorian. When it finally fell free, Yin admired the muscular body above him. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Yin blurted, running his fingers along the planes of his stomach. Dorian planted a hand in the centre of his chest and pushed him back on his elbows.

“I know. Now shut up,” he said, and dove at him again, coaxing Yin’s legs around his waist. Dorian teased him through his pants, laughing into his mouth when Yin growled at him and flipped them in one motion with his arm around his waist. 

“Why are there so many damn straps?” Yin demanded, giving up with loosening and went with pulling his pants free. 

“Because watching you conquer challenges—” Dorian huffed, kicking the offending clothing away, “—is arousing.” Yin hovered above him for a moment, curiously.

“Really?” Dorian rolled his eyes and yanked at Yin’s much simpler pants, pulling them away much easier than his own. “I must say, I like this Dorian.” 

“I’ve only just started. Let me show you,” Dorian said and pulled him down, Yin’s wild laugh punctuating his words and escaping into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickly:  
> -Many thanks to Fenxshiral's project Elvhen. It's a lifesaver and I wish I could sit down and really put it all together.  
> -Many apologies to those that have a better understanding of it and are watching me butcher the language...and will definitely be seeing more very bad usage of it.
> 
> Now, I just wanted to clarify/explain myself on something. There's a crap ton of words that Fenxshiral has translated and I am constantly trying to find the best way to rearrange them.  
> I used _ar nuven ma_ instead of _ar isala ma_ (I desire you...sexually) because 'nuven' fit best in that Yin cares for Dorian more than just...sexually.  
>  (nuven n. wish, desire, want, greed) putting emphasis on the wish/desire part. It's probably wrong anyway, but I'm too far in now.
> 
> __  
> __  
> __  
> _ლ(ಠ益ಠლ)_  
>   
>   
> 


	48. Night of Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a document corruption scare so here's an update I hadn't planned for until tomorrow. Cheers

If she had been told she’d make friends with a man who’d once been a templar prior to the Inquisition, she would have thought them childish or that they did not know her. And yet, as she and Cullen meandered their way around Skyhold, she learned about his past and found herself feeling the childish and sorry one. He had come to the Order with well-intentions only to run into corruption and betrayal at every turn. The man had made many poor choices in his life, of which if she had been told before, she likely would have hated him for it—but now? She had thought Templars to be subhuman tools, no better than the Qunari in their ways in that they were blinded by their religion and desired to imprison all mages. Perhaps she still felt that way toward most Templars…but they were still people. She had done many regrettable things in her life and Cullen had too. It seemed such a simple revelation, one that proved to her that even after living through countless ages, she was still learning. Everyone made mistakes and would have to live with them until the end of their days. And hopefully, one could learn from them.

He asked many questions about her own life and while she wanted to be honest to her new friend, the survivalist spy in her redirected the questions back at him. She wondered how Solas managed to avoid answering questions about his life, especially around someone as curious as Yin. Cullen was nothing like Yin.

When they finally moved onto subjects beyond the personal scope, Maordrid nearly sighed in relief.

“So. You’re staying in that little tower?” Cullen asked as they emerged from the main hall where they had stolen some bread rolls. He was the most relaxed she had seen him—eyes glowing, stride easy, and a smile perpetually present as they walked. Maordrid’s eyes wandered to her claimed corner of the battlements as she tore apart her roll.

“Yes,” she said, “It’s a bit empty, but it has potential. Did you know it has access to the top?” 

“I didn’t! I suppose you could be our resident watch,” he jested and she rolled her eyes. “Jokes aside, do you have all that you need? I know that place is empty.” 

“I’m fine, really, Commander. I feel bad that the Inquisition has allowed me such quarters. I would gladly stay in the barracks, if they Inquisition decides they have a better use for the tower,” she offered, but Cullen shook his head.

“The barracks are too full anyhow,” he said, “So I say we fix up that tower however you see fit. Josephine mentioned getting you a bed?” She nodded hesitantly as Cullen hummed in thought. “But it will take some time to arrive, so why don’t we build you a frame and…I don’t know, a straw mattress for now?” She laughed.

“I’m not a carpenter,” she said, but he jerked his head for her to follow him down the stairs to the lower courtyards where they aimed for the stables.

“I’m not either, but I have siblings that I’ve built stuff for before,” he said with an embarrassed smirk. 

“How did you fail to mention you had siblings while you were telling me about yourself?” she asked as they stopped at the entry and looked around. Cullen quickly spotted what he was after—a pile of boards, a hammer, some nails, and a saw. 

“You…want to hear about my family?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised as he lifted a few planks. She gestured for him to go on with a smile. “Well. I’m one of four children. Mia is the eldest, Branson and Rosalie are the young ones. Maker, I haven’t spoken to them in far too long.”

“Why don’t you write them?” she asked. “Surely you have a little time to now.” She took four planks and pulled them across her shoulders. Cullen stared at her with his eyebrows raised, eyes wide before he cleared his throat and gathered the tools and remaining planks.

“I suppose I should. Although Mia will be furious I didn’t write her sooner,” he laughed nervously as they mounted the stairs going up the wall. They climbed in silence as they struggled to keep their planks from falling as they went. At the top, Cullen paused outside of his office door, struggling to open it.

“Do you have any siblings, Maordrid?” he asked as they wedged themselves through to the other side. That gave her pause. A very uncomfortable one.

“No,” she finally answered, though it came out sounding uncertain. “Although…after I lost the band of dwarves that I considered family for a while, I was in a dark place. I went into solitude for years and…then I was found. Shiv and Ina made themselves my adopted brother and sister. They built me up again and gave me purpose.” They set the materials down outside of the door to her tower. It was more or less true: at some point, she had parted ways with her dwarves to go to the Elvhen capital and assume a position as a sentinel there. Eventually, her curiosity and bullheadedness had led her to her neck in conspiracies and corruption. She kept in contact with Grandda and Durol—since the others didn’t know how to read or write—until their letters came to an abrupt stop. It hadn’t taken long to find out that they had tried to return home beneath the earth and run across an expedition led by an Evanuris. They’d been slaughtered without mercy. In a black rage, she had fled her post in favour of destroying as much of the responsible Evanuris’ property as she could without getting caught. It drew attention regardless and assassins sought to end her. That was until Shiveren and Inaean found her and talked her down from her suicidal mission. The two of them turned out to be involved with Solas at the time and pulled her in. 

“They sound like good people. If you’ve lost contact with them, I’m sure Leliana could track them down,” Cullen said, pulling her from that dark hole. Maordrid began moving everything into the tower and onto the loft where she wanted the bed. She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore because that meant lying. And she did not like lying to people she considered friends.

“They’re…they’re not around,” she replied, “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Oh! Maker, I’m sorry, Maordrid,” he said. “If you ever want to talk about them, I’m happy to listen.” She smiled, but didn’t say anything. Cullen quickly began arranging the planks to begin assembling them. 

“The Inquisition has brought me some happiness,” she said, trying to dispel the dark cloud she’d brought upon them. “I think I’ve been adopted by Dhrui, after all.” Cullen chuckled.

“I’m glad. You deserve kindness and peace,” he said, gesturing for her to hold a board while he hammered. He went quiet again, focusing on his work. Maordrid hovered uselessly as she tried to find something to do besides hold planks. But she didn’t own books and things to keep her busy. She wished she had a lute, at least. When the silence stretched on, she noticed there was a strange set to Cullen’s face. His eyes kept flicking over to her, his mouth twitched, and then he’d go back to positioning and hammering.

“You’ve something to say, so say it,” she said, startling him. Cullen sat back on his heels looking sheepish.

“Your words got me thinking,” he said, avoiding her eyes, “I haven’t known you long, but ever since you joined you’ve known more suffering than a lot of people.” She slowly uncrossed her arms, furrowing her brow. “If you would be willing, though…I’d like to know what Samson did while you were his captive. I would see justice for you.” Maordrid pressed her lips together, looking out the small window. No, she didn’t want to think about it again. Not when she could still imagine cold of the water and the blood magic in her veins. 

“He kept me in a windowless room. Gave me enough water and broth to keep me alive. They barely let me sleep, thinking it would break me faster,” she breathed in, staring at the stone by her feet before continuing, “When that didn’t work, he got mad and tried everything—well, almost everything—he could physically to get me to talk. Then…he tried blood magic and very nearly succeeded.” Cullen put a little too much force behind a nail and bent it, looking up at her. She decided not to mention the well, the stonings, or the needles in her joints they had tried on her. Or that her feet had lasting nerve damage.

“Blood magic?” He growled, “He won’t get away with this. With any of it.”

“I know,” she said. “I want to be there when he is brought down.” Cullen nodded determinedly and from there on worked in silence until the frame was built. Then they decided to go find a small mattress hopefully in the barracks. 

“You’ve been too kind,” she said as they left once again. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he said, but his smile was tight at the corners. After they acquired a sad pad in a closet in the barracks, she noticed he was touching his temples frequently and his forehead was perspiring lightly. Her brain made an immediate connection.

“You’re not taking lyrium, are you?” she blurted. Cullen glanced uneasily at her, throwing the mattress down on the bed.

“No. You can tell, then,” he said irritably. 

“You should rest,” she said as he climbed down the ladder. 

“I will, thanks,” he said. She smiled and gathered her little satchel, planning to get a little time alone before sleeping. He wiped his face and smiled tiredly, then followed her out the door for the last time. 

“I see an opportunity,” she said. 

“Oh? What’s what?” he asked right before his exit. She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“Your office is just on the other side of that unoccupied tower,” she said, “I know a few elven tonics that will help with your fevers and headaches.”

“What would you want for them in exchange?” he asked warily.

“Nothing. If you can’t sleep or you want to play chess ever…” she trailed off at his expression, “Or you know…just…I’ll make you potions.” He laughed pleasantly.

“Company without headaches sounds nice,” he said. “It’s been a good night, Maordrid. Thank you.” She bowed deeply, fist in palm.

“ _Dareth shiral,_ Commander,” she said. He returned the bow and left her alone. When she was certain no one was within earshot, she let out a deep breath and counted to twenty before passing through the second tower. The battlements were empty at this time and so she climbed up onto the gatehouse above the bridge and settled down, pulling out her pipe and an embrium-elfroot mix that she packed into the bowl. 

Sitting there with her feet and back propped up against two merlons, she smoked and stared up at the untroubled skies. She had lost track of time, but judging by the bard’s continuous playing, it wasn’t too late. Although she could only hear the lute, not the voice accompaniment, so maybe the girl was tiring. Maordrid stayed until the moon rose behind the mountains, casting its silver light across the stone keep. To her right, the sounds of owls and crickets echoed up from the valley below, and to her left, the sounds of the Inquisition in their revelry. Her eye caught onto a firefly at the beginning of Skyhold’s incline, which was strange because the fireflies in the garden never ventured beyond their little area, as it was too cold. It seemed to be moving slowly, bobbing and bouncing and swaying up the road. Her smoky brain thought it amusing until she realised, as it got closer, it was getting too big to be a firefly. Its warm light spilled across the front of a cloaked figure and she wondered if the Inquisition got refugees and agents coming and going at all times of day and night. The sounds of the bard’s music and the raucous laughter drowned out anything she might have been able to discern of the stranger as they reached the first gatehouse. They paused for a moment, likely catching their breath from the hike before continuing across the drawbridge. The firefly extinguished. Her sedated brain was slow to process anything. There was something about the posture and the languid gait that—she sat up straight suddenly, one leg hanging off the edge of the wall at the same time that the stranger noticed her. He also came to a full stop at the centre of the bridge.

Maordrid waved out of uncertainty, but he did not. The man began walking again, but his stride quickened and he disappeared from sight. She cursed and struggled to move her limbs, dragging them back across the stone to get down from her perch. She quickly tamped her pipe out and as she was tucking it into her satchel, a head an shoulders emerged above the edge of the wall. She froze as Solas wrenched back his hood, lips parted in silent disbelief as she had seen in the Fade weeks ago.

“I did not believe fate to be kind enough to allow me to see you again,” he whispered. Her heart flipped and her ears warmed.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten me,” she said with a wonky grin, feeling giddy and anxious. His smile was small as he glanced over his shoulder toward the tavern, still loud and bright before looking at her again.

“Despite all that has happened, I have thought of you every day,” he said, turning his head back to her. His words both thrilled and terrified her. She wondered if it was showing on her numb face.

“I am sorry about Wisdom. I wish I could have been there for you,” she blurted. “But I am now…and you don’t have to grieve alone.” Her smile felt lopsided, but his grew as he turned back toward the steps.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked. “The night is calm beyond the walls. I know of a trail behind the keep.” She nodded enthusiastically and together they slipped outside the gates. He guided her with familiar steps, ones he had likely taken a thousand times before. They followed a narrow goat trail just against the outside of the wall, turning one corner, then another until they were behind Skyhold. True to his word, a rocky trail zig-zagged and dropped down the jagged stone that bore Skyhold. Eventually, they came upon a thin stone bridge spanning from one side of a deep, icy ravine to the mountain on the other side. As she looked over the edge, her depth perception warped and shifted in presence of the embrium-elfroot she’d smoked. Her stomach lurched and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Solas paused at the start of the bridge and offered his hand. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, and she took his hand hesitantly. His grip was strong and reassuring as they set across, though she ended up grabbing his forearm with her other hand out of fear of falling. She heard him chuckle when she did. On the other side, she released a breath. They continued walking along an ancient path hewn from the mountain, wide enough for them to walk side by side. She was keenly aware that he had not released her hand…but she made no move to retrieve hers. A stalemate, then. Eventually they came to a small tunnel in the mountain that opened up into a tiny oasis filled with flowers, clover, and a view of a frozen wonderland beyond. A handful of wisps drifted through the air like glowing balls of cotton. 

The sight made her want to profess to him how he had changed her. How he made her feel about the hand they’d both been dealt in this life—that there was hope that it could change. That perhaps two damaged individuals could make a whole.

However, she said nothing. Too long had she viewed herself as lesser, a shadow in a memory to _him_ —one face in a sea of countless others. He was the great Fen’harel; he would never have known her if not for this timeline.

But now he was Solas. Maordrid’s friend, not Yrja’s, not even Naèv Enso’s, the first she had been. Even introspectively she could not tell which was more true—the hardened, loveless, and determined weapon that was Yrja, or Maordrid who played lute, smoked a pipe, and drank whisky and didn’t hesitate to throw herself in front of her friends despite knowing what her death could cause. But still, she was not _truly_ herself—not until she could stop lying to those she cared for. Including him.

“I missed you, Solas,” she ended up saying after an awkward moment. “I’m sorry it took so long to let you know….at least send a sign that I was alive. You needed a friend when you lost yours and I wasn’t there…” She laughed nervously, rubbing her cheek, “I am not good at this sort of thing…but I care for you immensely.” She was rambling, wanting to go on and tell him how she truly felt, but then there was a light touch at her shoulder. She turned to see him looking at her with hesitation and something else—something she perhaps didn’t want to know—but she forced herself to stop thinking. They stepped forward at the same time and embraced. She laughed, reaching peak giddiness.

“Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s been so long since I could trust someone.” _I’m sorry that you can’t trust me. But I’m selfish—you’ve become more than a figurehead and a title to me._ She gripped him tightly, fists balling in his cloak and eyes welling before she released him and walked to a patch of flowers where she yanked her braid and tried willing her emotions away.

“I think I heard something about leaving for Adamant in a few days. They’re preparing troops and building siege engines out in the Approach,” she said, voice thick, “It seems we will never have a chance to simply be ourselves without something interrupting.” She sat down, draping her arms over her knees. Solas joined her silently, but peered out at the night beyond the oasis.

“It may not be ideal, but at least we will be travelling there together,” he said. She smiled again, hiding it behind her knees. The therapeutic property of elfroot was creeping up on her, making her want to lie down in the bed of flowers. “Wisdom collected lore and history. I shared some of the stories you imparted upon me, for which she was happy and wanted to meet you.” He sighed wearily. “Even though my friend is gone…at least I still have one that seeks the mysteries lost to us and cherishes them as she once did.” 

“Why don’t you tell me some of her favourite memories?” She lay back and looked at him. Solas smiled back and laid beside her so that they were both looking up at the stars. As he began to recount a tale set in the Emerald Graves, she let her hand rest upon his in the clover. Then, she let herself drift along in the song of his voice and the intricate story that Wisdom had carried for ages past. 

  



	49. Breaking and Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops. This got buried between the last chapter and the one after this...which is large. Sorry! *tosses and runs*

Light, warm and bright on the back of his eyelids had him shifting over onto his side. His brain registered a hangover of considerable strength. No one would miss him if he slept all day. Nevertheless, his eyes popped open when his arm landed on an empty space on the Orlesian sheets. He flipped back over and surveyed the bright room only to see Dorian standing before the double-doors of the balcony, admiring the morning view. Yin admired his bare arse.

“You’re up early,” he grumbled, placing pillows behind his back so he could sit up.

“It’s nearly noon, actually,” Dorian mused, stepping back inside. “I was admiring everything. I like it. The mountains, your quarters.”

“Do you now?” he refrained from chuckling, the simple pressure was enough to make him queasy. Dorian padded back toward the bed, giving him a full view of his Tevinter glory. 

“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity. I just like your appointments.” Yin felt…disappointed. “Your taste in decor is not what I expected, however.” Yin smirked.

“And what _did_ you expect?” he asked as Dorian sat on the edge of the bed.

“Something more…Antivan or Dalish, perhaps? But then again, you’re a large, bearded lumberjack. I didn’t take you for an admirer of Orlesian style.” There _was_ an overwhelming amount of Orlesian stuff. He’d asked Vivienne for advice in decorating and she had said she would speak to Josephine. He’d had no idea that she taken full control of the entire theme. He was happy that Josephine had imported an Antivan-style desk and Dalish-woven rugs. 

“I like pretty things,” he replied dumbly, then squinted, wondering why they were talking about stupid decorations. “Is…is there something on your mind, Dorian?” The mage’s face fell, looking away as he did.

“Distracted, is all,” he deflected, “because, you know, sex.” Yin gave him a look. Dorian sighed in an exaggerated manner. “ _Fiine,_ you’ve got me. I…was thinking and I’m…curious where this will go—you and I. I’m not sure what the right choice is—do we leave this behind and focus on saving the world? With how much you have on your plate I don’t want to complicate things.” Yin grunted as he pulled himself up and slid to the edge of the bed, head tight and spinning, although not because of the hangover.

“Such uncertainty is unlike you. What do you want?” Yin asked.

“All on me, then?” Dorian wouldn’t look at him, so Yin got onto his knees before the man, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Should it be all on me?” he asked, putting his hands on Dorian’s calves. The man sighed longingly.

“I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise,” he said, which wasn’t at all what Yin wanted to hear. He already knew what he wanted, but Dorian had to say it. “…We end it here, I walk away. I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now than later. Later might be…dangerous.” Yin’s lips quirked upward.

“Why dangerous? When has that ever deterred us?” he asked. He meant for it to be lighthearted and give hope, but Dorian wasn’t having it. He didn’t care—he would follow the man wherever he went after they won this fight.

“Walking away might be harder then,” he said in a nigh whisper. Yin grabbed his wrists firmly.

“Walking away? If I haven’t been clear about my feelings before, Dorian, let me be clear now,” he said earnestly. “I… _care_ for you. More than you know.” He was speechless, staring at him with his keen grey eyes. 

“I was…expecting something different,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Where I come from, anything between two men…it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to.”

“You’re not in Tevinter anymore. And I’m not in Antiva or wandering with my Clan,” Yin said. “And even if you go back someday…you’ll bet I’ll be right behind you.”

“It’s easier said than done. These habits are…hard to break.” 

“I’m good at breaking things,” Yin pressed and realised belatedly how badly that sounded. “But I’m also mending the world as I go.” Yin stroked his pulse points at his wrists and Dorian finally cracked a smile.

“Care to inquisit me again? I’ll be more specific in my directions this time,” he asked and fell back with a laugh when Yin claimed his mouth with his. It was worth the hangover.


	50. The Heals and Hurts of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Might take a two day break so I can focus on writing my way out of a small rut.

Maori stirred, feeling uncomfortably warm in all but her feet which were bare and freezing. When she opened her eyes, she found she was on the sofa in the rotunda, flush against Solas’ side, hands tucked between them in search of warmth. He’d thrown a blanket over them both, but her feet were uncovered on the other side of his lap. One of his arms lay across her shoulders and his head rested against the top of hers, still sound asleep, breathing softly. She realised that she must have fallen asleep at the oasis and he had carried her back but had faced the predicament of not knowing where she was staying and had been too tired to care. 

When she shifted to bring her feet underneath the blanket, he stirred.

“Sleep well?” he murmured with a small smile, sitting up. She removed her legs and scooted back a little, but kept her frigid feet under the blanket. 

She ran her tongue along her teeth before speaking. “I think so.” She didn’t feel particularly rested, but then again she’d long since gotten used to living in a perpetual state of weariness.

“And your dreams?” The worry in his voice reminded her of the demon stalking her. It had been quiet in the Fade, but the feeling of constantly being watched had replaced the nightmares. She sighed and threw her legs over the edge of the sofa, rubbing her face of sleep.

“I think you were right,” she said, “That the Breach was aiding to its abilities.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“It may be safer to investigate now. Two Somniari should have no issue.” At _two_ her heart fluttered oddly. 

“When do you propose we do that?” she asked, spreading her hands. Solas raised a brow.

“We could any time we sleep,” he said with a sly smile. She immediately stood, trying to obscure her suddenly flaming face. _And now you’re acting like Yin,_ she admonished herself as she spotted her stockings and boots nearby. “You agreed that—”

“I know I did and so we shall,” she said perhaps a little too sharply, then turned back to him feeling a bit of remorse. “I…thank you. Last night was nice. And the blanket! You were warm—I mean, it was…but so are you? I liked—you know what, I’ll just shut up.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear suddenly feeling fidgety. He only watched her, eyes gleaming above an amused smile. “I’ll be…I have an appointment—in the training yard. Shall we meet again…later?” He finally broke his statue’s impression and nodded, still smiling.

“Yes, I’ll find you?” She nodded and waved, turning away. “I look forward to it,” he called after her, voice lilting in presence of mirth. She had to control her pace as she left the rotunda, heart hammering. She clutched her boots to her chest too flustered to stop and put them on. She didn’t get far—literally just a pace from the door when Dhrui stepped seemingly out of the walls and fell in stride with her, bearing a smug grin.

“ _So!_ ” The suggestive tone in her voice was _not_ good. “I was wondering if you had a thing for anyone here.” The hall was beginning to fill with people coming in for breakfast. And of course Solas emerged as Dhrui said that, blinking first at Lavellan, then at her. Maori merely nodded at him and then pulled the younger elf by her bicep. Dhrui had the gall to blow a kiss at Solas, who _actually_ smirked. Maordrid gaped at both of them and all but carried Dhrui out.

“I don’t have a _thing_ for anyone,” she hissed once they were outside. Dhrui snorted, tossing her braid over her shoulder.

“And I’m actually Mythal—you think me daft? You were snug up against him like you’re touched starved, which, I bet you are and he is and it’s kind of perfect, right?” 

“You spied on us?” Maordrid groaned in disbelief.

“Uh, no? You were sort of right in the middle of a _common area.”_

“You’re an impudent little pest.” 

“And _you’re_ in denial!” she said in a sing song voice as they arrived at the still-empty practice yard. Cullen’s recruits wouldn’t likely be there for her pointers until after breakfast. Maordrid noticed a weapon rack bearing practice staves, swords, and shields. She retrieved a staff for herself and then tossed one to Dhrui, set to teach her a lesson.

“You want to be my apprentice?” She put her sternest Commander face on, standing straight, shoulders back, stance wide. Dhrui’s own bright countenance faltered but wasn’t extinguished. 

“Ooh, has Mamaela Maori come out to beat some discipline into this young whippersnapper?” Dhrui yelped when Maordrid spun her staff, knocking her legs out from underneath her. 

“Can you even fight?” Maordrid held the end of her staff against the girl’s sternum. “Or are you going to talk your enemies to death? With me, you’ll be getting your hands dirty. You should know how to use them.” A pool of ice formed lightning fast beneath Dhrui’s back, and the girl used its slickness to twist her legs and jump back to her feet. She swung her staff at Maordrid’s arm, but in two quick steps the older elf had already placed herself behind Dhrui, bringing them back to back. As Dhrui went to turn, Maordrid turned with her, feeling her shoulders and hips shifting as she attempted to bring them face to face again. After several seconds of the girl failing to counter her, Maordrid hooked her leg around Dhrui’s and grounded her again.

“All right, you’ve proved your damn point!” she sputtered, wiping dirt from her mouth. “You gonna teach me or just keep beating on me?”

“This  is learning,” Maori said, helping her up. “But I suppose we can go through some drills first, then spar.” Dhrui huffed, blowing her hair out of her face before nodding. 

“I want to learn. I’m…sorry,” she said, but Maordrid brushed her off.

“You keep me on my toes. Mind, I’ll knock you off yours.” Dhrui laughed and punched her in the arm. Then Maordrid began running them through drills, glad to be practising after so long.

Eventually however, they drew a crowd of recruits that were there for Cullen’s debriefing and testing. Apparently, she was to face off against each one while Cullen stood back and critiqued them. She wasn’t sure why he had asked her and not any of the other veteran warriors…or practised soldiers…but with Dhrui nearby, she figured the girl could stand to learn something.

The two women decided to conclude their session with a spar since Cullen hadn’t yet arrived. Dhrui was sweaty, filthy, and panting from their last drill spent dodging small rocks hurled by magic. The fight was hardly fair and without magic, Maordrid couldn’t properly gauge Dhrui’s utmost skill. But the potential was there and already she was showing a vast improvement, demonstrating that she had in fact been listening to her advice.

“Ser, are we going to be learning with bo staffs?” a recruit asked from the sidelines. “Not sure what use a wooden staff would be in a close-quarters fight.” Maordrid almost delivered a snappy remark to the young man but was interrupted by Cullen himself arriving.

“It can be very useful if you’re skilled enough. Same goes for any weapon. But for this instance, you will be using a practice sword.” Maordrid handed her staff over to Dhrui who went to put them away and retrieve a sword. Cullen approached just as Dhrui handed her new weapon over. “I wasn’t aware you were also training Lady Lavellan? Have you resumed lessons with the Inquisitor?”

“You’re teaching my bloody brother too?” Dhrui asked. 

“Our lessons were cut short after Haven, but yes.” Maordrid surveyed their onlookers and stepped back to swing the practice sword. “There’s no reason I cannot teach you both. Consider this part of your lessons. Who is first, Commander?” Cullen was smirking, but barked at the recruit that had spoken earlier. He paled and jumped the fence, looking sheepish.

“Emmet, is it?” The sandy-haired man nodded, standing up straight as Cullen addressed him. “Emmet, you’re going to fight Maordrid. It’s a fight for your life, so do your best. And use your shield!” He turned to the dozens of soldiers around the yard who were now all attentive. “We are marching to Adamant in a week. In that time, we’re going to drill you _hard_. Those that display competency will be with us when that time comes. Those that don’t will take up bow and arrow.” Several groaned, but didn’t protest. Cullen turned back to her with a grin. “And I want to see what you got.” Maordrid gave him a half bow, flourishing her sword. 

“As you wish.” Immediately following, she fought with Emmet. He proved to put a lot of power behind his attacks, but he was too slow. Then again, they wouldn’t be fighting ancient elves one and a half times as fast as them. She used his momentum against him which brought their session to a quick end. 

The next five were increasingly better, clearly because they’d been paying attention and learning from their comrades. Well, and she’d caught their whispers between one another about not wanting to be shown up by a knife ear. They were eager to expose her weaknesses. But Maordrid was aware of her own flaws and was even more wary of those that tried to exploit them. Close combat made her nervous but she tried not to let it show. Mid-range was her forte, even with a spear. Speed and agility were her strengths—power and constitution were not. Being small meant having to work harder and risking exhaustion quickly. Fortunately, the recruits were nowhere near tiring her even when Cullen called a break. Maordrid lounged against the fence, drinking from a waterskin when the man approached her. 

“Your men—and women—fight well, Commander,” she said. Cullen laughed.

“Not one of them landed a hit past your defences. They’re all too green yet. Although, I had expected at least one slip from you near the end. Where did you get your training?” he asked. Dhrui was nearby, looking as though she also wanted to know the answer. Maori gave her a glance as she formulated an answer.

“The Fade is the short answer. Life as a wandering elf is the longer one,” she said, not striving to come up with something creative. He didn’t seem content, and she figured she wouldn’t be either with that weak-ass answer.

“Your style of fighting doesn’t seem like something one could learn on the road,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“ _On_ the road, no, but it led me to places like Tevinter with their bloodletting arenas, the Avvar holds, and to shady dwarves in need of a mage’s skill. I learned from a spirit of Valour and Protection as well, mind you.” She held his gaze unwavering, wondering where this suspicion had come from. Perhaps she should make up an excuse to leave the practice before she fell under the scrutiny of someone like Leliana—if she wasn’t already.

“You do realise mages can learn how to fight?” Dhrui butted in, coming to sit on the fence beside Maori. “In my clan, we all learned. Especially since Templars really enjoy making a sport of hunting elves when they’re bored.” Cullen realised the hot water he was in and shook his hands in defence. 

“I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything,” he said, and to his credit, calmly.

“Oh, really? To me it sounded like you were. You still don’t trust her after all this time? Yeah, I know about your distrust of mages. Rumours are hot and lips are loose here.” Dhrui was fiery, nearly baring her teeth at the man. Maordrid thought she should maybe intervene, but she didn’t want to get burned. On a vain note, she was rather flattered at her defence. She went to put a hand on Dhrui’s shoulder, but the woman jumped off the fence and turned to her, looking angry. “You know he was put up to this?” Cullen attempted to speak, but Dhrui silenced him with a glare. 

“What?” Maordrid said with half a laugh. 

“Mhm. And last night? All a ruse to get you to talk. ‘Cause that Spymaster of theirs can’t find anything useful on you.” 

“Enough!” Cullen finally shouted, then flinched at his own outburst. People nearby were staring in concern, but quickly went back to their own business at his look. Maordrid felt cold and hot with a dousing of acid. The familiar touch of betrayal.

“Is this true?” she asked. The Commander and Dhrui were glowering at each other.

“Yes,” he finally said, though it sounded as though it took massive effort to admit it. Maordrid cast her head back, trying to compose herself. _I’ve been too trusting. You’ve gone soft, trusting Templars? How did you ever think such a friendship could work out?_

“How long?” Cullen deflated, dropping his arms to his sides.

“She asked me back in Haven,” he said morosely, “But I swear, Maordrid, none of it was faked on my behalf—”

“I believe you were genuine, Commander,” she said, voice like frosted steel, “But that’s just low. I suppose my initial impression of you was right. Spineless and suspicious.” She gathered her woollen cloak off the fence and jerked her head at Dhrui who happily came to her side. “At least you’ve plenty of other warriors to help you train your soldiers. Excuse me while I mourn the man I considered a friend.” Maordrid took off, intending to clear her head somewhere else. They found a water barrel in the lower courtyard that they quickly cleaned their faces in before Dhrui followed her to the stables where they found Master Dennet busy with a few new mounts. Two were harts and another was—

“What. The. _Fuck_. Is that?” Dhrui exclaimed at the fat beast before them.

“Well put,” Maordrid muttered, eyes pinned to its fore…hands?

“This…is a Greater Nugalope,” Dennet grunted as he attempted to pull the thing into a stable. “Stubborn thing. It was nearly impossible to get him across the bridge. Think he smelled the breakfast from the keep; only reason we got him in here.” 

“ _Noooo_ , this big boy just needs incentive,” Dhrui cooed, walking up to the nugalope. She procured an apple from her pocket and immediately the creature’s ears pricked up attentively. While Dhrui loved on the great grey behemoth, Maordrid took a look at the harts. 

“Tirashan Swiftwind?” she asked, observing one with a silvery-blue coat. 

“Aye. Known for their uncanny cleverness,” Dennet said as he maneuvered the other one into a stable. “You’re welcome to take ‘em out.” Dhrui squealed behind them.

“Let’s do it! C’mon, just you and me,” Dhrui begged. Maordrid rolled her eyes. 

“All right, but you’re saddling the fat one,” Dennet said. Dhrui gasped.

“This is why he won’t listen to you. You’re a beautiful boy!” 

“Stop, before I vomit,” Maordrid deadpanned, helping the stablemaster to saddle the Swiftwind. Dhrui had the nugalope ready before them, which was truly disturbing. 

When they finally rode out of the gates, Maordrid breathed a sigh.

“How did you find all of that out about Cullen? And so quickly?” she asked, reluctant. Dhrui was sprawled out on her belly across the nugalope’s back, scratching him behind the ear.

“Remember that night on the Plains? You told me to spy, but I’ve been doing that since I got to Skyhold. I was curious. Everyone in the Inquisition are open books, more or less, but you’re still closed to them—figured that out real quick—so it wasn’t difficult to find out _some_ people were still concerned about your background.” Dhrui near glowed with pride as she spoke, “’Specially after we came back with you in tow. Leliana’s a cold one. Pentaghast rose up a stink about how you should have been dead and that you must be alive because you’re working for Corypheus. Or someone else.”

“Is this all behind Yin’s back?” Maordrid bristled and her hart snorted, sensing her ire. She patted his neck calmly, muttering to him in Elvhen. 

“I think the Seeker has the hots for my brother. You took her spot, in her eyes,” Dhrui said. “Either way, I’m sorry if I overstepped.” Maordrid shook her head.

“You did exactly as I told you,” she said. “Sometimes the truth hurts, but it hurts more if it remains intentionally concealed.” They took a small path off the side of the main road that led into a frozen forest. “This was once a battlefield.” They slid from their mounts and led them from there, melting the snow gently with spells so as not to spook their animals.

“Wait, so you’ve been here before?” Dhrui asked. 

“Tarasyl’an Tel’as. Do you know what that means?” Maordrid asked. 

“The place where the sky was held back.” She nodded.

“The Veil was created here,” she said. Dhrui laughed hysterically, shouting _What?!_ as they walked. “The truth has been diluted in Dalish lore, but it is in there.” Dhrui bit the nail of her thumb. 

“When Fen’harel locked away the gods,” she said, then looked at her, oxblood eyes wide. “Maori, he used the _Veil_ to trap our gods? Why?” 

“Slow down,” Maordrid cautioned, but Dhrui shook her head.

“Enough of this…easing my way into it, give me some credit. You said the truth hurts—it does, and it’s been hidden too long from the Dalish.” Maordrid reeled, unused to such fervour. “ _Please._ ” 

“Very well, but let us walk farther.” In truth, she simply needed the time to gather her thoughts. She could feel Dhrui nearly vibrating the air with anticipation. Or perhaps that was the earth trembling as the Big One loped along.

“Look, I’m sorry about being so overbearing. I just revealed your friend betrayed you and here I am being an arsehole,” Dhrui sighed, “But you have no idea how much this means to me. I’m selfish.” Maordrid chuckled lowly. 

“You know what you want and you persist until it’s yours. I admire it.”

“The elders in my clan called it impatience.” They both shared a chuckle. Eventually they arrived at a small frozen pond nestled in a circle of trees encased in ice. A single log lay fallen across the pond itself. Together they cleared a space in the snow for the nugalope and hart while they moved to sit on the log. It was then that it truly began to dawn on her the gravity of the information Dhrui sought. 

“What I know would— _will_ —crumble the foundation of human beliefs and that of the Dalish,” she said, taking her braid between her fingers. “What you know are truths that have been inevitably twisted by time.” 

“You know, Solas kept saying the same thing on our trip to the Western Approach,” Dhrui said, touching her toes to the ice, “He was really upset about the Dalish. Said he tried sharing knowledge he’d gotten from the Fade and they…may have chased him off or maybe worse.” Maordrid didn’t say anything at first, but she likely knew what he had tried to share.

“Then you understand that whatever he attempted to impart upon them was something that challenged their beliefs. We are called flat ears and spat upon. _Ar banalvara ma. Dirtha mar salhasine’syl vara, Banallen._ ” Dhrui looked at her aghast.

“Who said that to you?” she whispered. 

“The elves that did not want to hear the terrible truth about their gods,” Maordrid replied. “And the truth is that they were never gods.” 

“Solas said something like that too,” Dhrui said, sounding mournful. “I asked him what he believed in, more out of frustration at one point. He said he believed they existed, but that they weren’t gods. _Not unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity_ , I think were his words. It was hard to come to terms with it because he was such an arse about anything I had to say…but hearing it from you now…” Dhrui adjusted herself so that she was sitting facing Maori on the log, one leg bent beneath her. “Something about you feels right. Call me crazy.” Maordrid laughed.

“You’ve known me only for a few days,” she said. 

“See? Nutters.” They shared a laugh, but Maordrid confessed she felt the same. It had been a long time since she had felt she could trust anyone. That revelation alone was like being struck by lightning. “Are you okay?” The elf was watching her with concern.

“Shiveren saw something in you the day we escaped Therinfal,” Maori looked at her carefully—at her lips, her eyes, her vallaslin. “It took me some time, but I see it now. I don’t know how…perhaps it’s a gift of the Lavellans.” Dhrui sat up straighter with a grin.

“We’re _nas’falon,_ friend,” Dhrui said and Maordrid laughed heartily. “I don’t care if you don’t believe in that either, but I feel it. Maybe that’s why I haven’t ripped your eyeballs out for challenging my beliefs and you haven’t killed me for knowing your secrets.” Maordrid didn’t argue. She had a strange way of saying it, but she was right. There was no denying that there was a bond. “If you don’t make me question my existence again, I’m not going to consider this a successful lesson. Look at it this way—you know the future, you know…one of the pasts. If you weren’t as intimidating as you are, I’d be stalking you like a shadow—pestering you every waking moment.” 

“You must understand my caution.” She saw the argument in the younger elf’s eyes and the eagerness escaped her in a garbled noise from her throat. It was refreshing to have someone so hungry for knowledge, but Maordrid herself—or rather, Yrja—had never been a mentor like this. “There is a delicacy to knowledge. Given the right way, it has the potential to build beautiful things—”

“Or it can be twisted and corrupted,” Dhrui finished, nodding. “So tell me what you are  ready to tell me, _hahren.”_ Maordrid passed her gaze across the girl’s features, going down until her eyes came to a rest at her hands where the ink of her vallaslin swirled and curled around her fingers like ivy vines. She took Dhrui’s hands, sweeping her thumbs over the backs of her knuckles.

“I said before that the gods weren’t gods. They were called the Evanuris—honoured generals of wars they fought and won. They rose and declared themselves gods,” she said, wishing she had the Fade to help her explain. “But they were subjugators. They took slaves of their own people, marking them with symbols to show ownership. Falon’din only saw them as fuel for his spells—Ghilan’nain as subjects for her experiments. Andruil often used them as bait or hunted them for sport before she went mad…” She squeezed Dhrui’s hands and released them, looking back up at her. “It pains me that of all things to transcend time, the _vallaslin_ somehow endured.” Dhrui reached up to the apple of her cheek, pressing at the curving lines of silver-blue framing them. She said something in Antivan and then swung her legs over the log, stepping down onto the ice below where she walked to the centre. “Dhrui, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You haven’t,” she answered, though it rushed from her in a breath. The girl’s hands tremored, though whether from the cold or the truth, Maordrid couldn’t tell. “But that was a good one. Got me first try.” The tremor became a full body shake. Maori was afraid to know if it was laughter or tears. “I loved believing in them. Thinking that there was a patron for everything in existence—where did fire come from? _Sylaise gave it to us._ Who gives us animals to eat and supply us with hide for clothes and shelter? _Ghilan’nain and Andruil, of course._ It was all fucking simple and there were answers!” Dhrui squatted, wrapping her arms around herself as she stared at her hazy reflection in the ice. “And I ate it all up without question. We all did.” Maordrid remained silent, just listening and not thinking. Part of her questioned bringing a mere child into this, but the alternative would have been leaving her in the dark with the others, only to find out years from now. “But…is that the truth anymore? About the _vallaslin_? My people claimed it for themselves, it means something different than enslavement to a false god. It means strength and endurance through time, bonds through struggle and oppression…” Her face was raw, unbidden emotion that brought Maordrid to her knees before the girl. “Can’t it be?” She brought their foreheads together, ancient and young—a bridging of worlds.

“I respect your beliefs. But you wanted a truth,” Maori said. Dhrui opened her eyes, dragging them down her features.

“You don’t have _vallaslin_.” Again, it was Maordrid who broke their contact to look away. “Did you ever have any?” She shivered and this time it wasn’t from the cold. She owed an answer to Dhrui as much as it pained her to part with secrets she held closer than her own skin.

“Yes,” she said, cringing inside at how small her voice sounded. _I loved my god, more dearly than my own self._ “Most of us did. Then we were freed by the very man your people have feared and loathed ever since then.”

“Fen’harel,” Dhrui breathed, then quickly looked back toward the direction of Skyhold. “That castle—it’s his, isn’t it?” 

“You’re quick to catch on,” Maordrid said dryly. “Yes, it is. Or was.” Dhrui’s face became clouded with conflicted thought.

“I was told Solas led them here. Does he know its origins as well?” 

“He walks the Fade and is well-travelled. He likely does,” she said, desperately wanting for the girl to stray away from the subject of Solas. She still needed to sort out her feelings before she explained anything to Dhrui or Dorian. 

“Wait, doesn’t that make him a threat? What if he happens upon a memory of you?” she asked, snapping her from her thoughts.

“There may not be any memories of me in the time of Arlathan. Finding such things are difficult today,” she said. “And I did not always look as I do now. Either way, I want you to leave him to me.” Dhrui gave her a grin she was becoming accustomed to seeing between the Lavellan siblings. “Don’t start with that again.”

“I haven’t even said anything! See, I just gotta _look_ at you and you know what I’m thinking. Gods, you’re adorable when you’re flustered!” Dhrui reached over and tweaked her cheek much to her horror. 

“Dhrui, _please,_ ” she snapped, wanting to smack the smug look off her face when it remained. Eventually it faded as her friend seemed to sense her pain permeating the air around her.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” _Existence is, yes._ “You can’t be yourself for sake of your mission, can you?” 

“Yes and no,” she replied in a small voice. “At least to those in the Inquisition. It’d be easier if no one liked me. Or if I hadn’t become friends with your brother to begin with.” The two of them sat in silence, surrounded by the quiet of the frozen forest. 

“So. Fen’harel’s castle,” Dhrui said, eyes roaming the ice. “He’s the only one you haven’t spoken ill of. I’m guessing you’re friends or at least…know one another?” 

“Too clever,” she finally said. “I…in a way, yes.”

“I’m sensing reluctance. All right, how about this—is he alive?” Maordrid nodded. “Is he at all related to anything?” She nodded again.

“He has everything to do with it.” The confession felt like pulling off a scab. “He created the Veil and it has been decaying ever since. A perfect opportunity to pull it back down, end the Evanuris for good. He wants to return the world to our people.” 

“Whoa, back up—he’s a good guy?” Maordrid huffed.

“Give _that_ up—there are no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ players here. Just…bear with me? I know he’s the great adversary of Dalish legend, but Evanuris propaganda has muddied everything he ever did.” She was scrambling for a good way to explain it all. Her nerves were fraying and her tongue wanted to run away with the truth. She took a deep, calming breath and continued, “He has always meant well for the People. But now I’d say he has become out of touch with reality. Bringing down the Veil will end this world. It may restore the people of our time, but it could mean the end of yours.” 

“What?” Dhrui whispered. “Wait, wouldn’t that free the Evanuris _and_ the other pantheon in addition killing everyone? Does he _want_ to die? Can we help somehow? I mean, like, help him to deal with the Evanuris and help our people, too.”

“That’s why I am here. He is set in his ways, but I am working on changing that. My people have plans,” she said. Dhrui nodded in thought, peering into the ice.

“Why doesn’t he care what happens to the world if he brings the Veil down again?” she asked. 

“A good question. Grief, I believe,” Maori answered, shaking her head sadly. “Fen’harel fell into a deep sleep after the end of the war. He could do nothing from there and when he woke up, the world was changed for the worse in his eyes—he blamed himself and now thinks he must fix the world alone in a terrible way." 

"Yet you're determined to help him find another solution. Outwit the Dread Wolf without getting bitten," Dhrui said. Maordrid nodded.

"I have endured the ages and I have changed with the world—he has not...yet. As I have said before, it has become my duty to save you all…and him from himself. In my timeline, it was your brother’s mission as well.” 

“Yin knew who Fen’harel was?” Maordrid felt ill, wondering if she had gone too far. 

“Don’t ask me anymore, _lethallin_. I…I can’t.” Surprisingly, she didn’t press the subject. She was just silent, contemplating. “There is so much to it that I can’t explain yet. The best I can offer is to show you what we have lost.” Dhrui’s breath came out in a cloud, but she nodded curtly.

“I swore that I would help you, and that means understanding, right? But that means you have to be honest too,” Dhrui said, face set with determination. “Even if it hurts.”

“Even if it hurts,” Maori agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balancing what Maori gives away is so hard! I always feel so anxious posting these types of talks.
> 
> Rough translations:  
>  _Ar banalvara ma. Dirtha mar salhasine'syl vara, Banallen._  
>  "I banish/exile you. Speak your madness/breath/words elsewhere, enemy/nothings."  
> (essentially really bad Elvhen for Begone, take your lies elsewhere!)  
>  _nas'falon_ =soul friends! (could also mean soul mates, but Dhrui totally just loves her as one would love a sister)


	51. Shores Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluff? Sort of? I only know anguish, so...sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still technically on my little 'break'. Been doing a lot of...plot assessment. (i.e. scouring tumblrs and reddit threads for theories, breakdowns...yeah, I've donned a full suit of tinfoil and am now building my foil stronghold.)

After they had talked, Dhrui had insisted that they go hunting to burn off their frustrations. Maordrid had a feeling that the girl just used that as an excuse to get her to shapeshift. She wasn’t about to turn a good hunt down. Dhrui, it turned out, was a formidable huntress. Maori took shape as a panther and prowled through the forest on the ground while her Dalish elf climbed almost soundlessly through the branches above, searching for prey. 

Together, they took down a massive elk drinking of a trickling spring from the mountains. Dhrui took it from above, landing on its back and clinging to its antlers trying to control it while Maordrid charged in and sank her jaws into its neck. The elk didn’t go down easily, running into snow drifts and shaking and bucking in an attempt to get Dhrui off its back. Maordrid had been forced to release it or be stamped to death beneath its hooves. In the end, she threw her spear and caught it in its neck. Dhrui stayed on its back until it collapsed with a lamenting wail. Then they set to skinning it for its hide, antlers, and meat. Normally, Maordrid would harvest its bones for weapons or runes for enchantments, but there was only so much they could heap on the back of the nugalope for the trip back. The two of them piled on the back of the Swiftwind instead and Dhrui coaxed the fat thing she had begun to called Shamun to follow with yet another apple. 

They returned to Skyhold pining for a warm cup of cider after being out so long in the cold. When they finally arrived at the stables with their bounty, a few scouts appeared to take the elk’s remains to respective places throughout the keep. Blackwall was standing nearby during the scene and was giving her a very unnerved look before he cleared his throat and wiped at his mouth. It turned out, Dhrui had completely neglected to tell her about the massive amount of blood on her face. Blackwall seemed content to keep her little secret, choosing to believe that she was simply a savage. It wasn’t the worst anyone had thought of her.

Maordrid decided she didn’t want to think about her earlier troubles with Cullen or the numerous worries of the future and elected to stay in Dhrui’s company for a little longer. When they arrived in the main hall, a crowd was just beginning to disperse. Apparently, Yin had made his first judgement as Inquisitor for Gereon Alexius. He had been made to serve the Inquisition in the time that they’d been gone. Just like he had in the other timeline. She had utterly forgotten about the offer she had made to his son, Felix. A way to cleanse him of his sickness. She had gotten too ahead of herself—cleansing oneself of the Blight took…resources. Resources that she would not be quick enough to gather. The cowardly part of her hoped that Dorian would never ask her about him.

Dhrui pulled her into the kitchens before she could get wrapped up in another matter. The two women gathered their drinks and a small snack and slowly made their way back through the halls. Eventually, Maordrid decided to make her way back to her tower. There was still much for her to do in order for her to truly settle in the keep. Dhrui promised to meet up with her that night for an adventure in the Fade.

She was on her way to her quarters when she encountered Solas again, but this time he was coming from her tower holding something under his arm. 

“I was just thinking of you,” she said, just to gauge his reaction. The tips of his ears reddened as he came to a stop on a step above her. “I’m afraid we will have to push back the Fade to another day. Tomorrow or something.” His face fell into disappointment.

“You can’t continue putting this off,” he said as she joined him on his step.

“Please. Today has been…”

“I know, I heard,” he sighed, then removed the bundle from beneath his arm. “Well, only that it was a spectacle. Do you want to talk about it?” She smiled at him.

“There isn’t much to talk about. I’d rather leave it,” she said. “What’s this?” He looked at the bundle in his hands then at the cup in hers, deciding to tuck it back under his arm.

“A blanket. I thought you might need one,” he said, a faint pink tinging his cheeks. “Your choice of lodgings is lacking in warmth.” She jerked her head in direction of the tower and looped her arm through his. _What are you doing?_ a voice hissed in her head, but she stamped it out like an ashen wisp. They walked comfortably in step, hardly drawing a gaze from those they passed.

“It has an opening in the roof. I couldn’t resist,” she said. “I can watch the stars all night.” She extricated her arm once they arrived, pulling the door open and inviting him inside. 

“It’s awfully…empty,” he said, voice echoing. 

“We’ve been back, what, a day, Solas?” she said with a laugh, setting her cup down so she could climb up her ladder with the blanket. “Do you have any suggestions? I’m afraid I’m unused to having a space to personalise to my liking.” After throwing the blanket over the lumpy mattress of her cold bed, she climbed up the second ladder and threw the trapdoor open, pulling herself through. Solas appeared moments later and this time she helped him through, taking his hands. They stood together at the top, breathing in the crisp mountain air.

“Have you ever kept plants? Gardened?” he asked as she peered over the edge of the tower. “You could gather samples from our journeys and bring them back here. I always thought they made for soothing decoration—they’re also quite therapeutic to take care of. And…you seem quite proficient at keeping things alive.” She laughed, facing him. 

“In the moment! I’ve never tried sustaining a life once it’s been saved,” she said. “I’m shite for heals. If you gave me a rock to care for I’d find a way to kill it.” He chuckled, but then immediately stopped when she tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Did you just snort, Solas?” He laughed again, but avoided her eyes, covering his mouth.

“Surely not as embarrassing as snoring.” Her mouth fell open.

“I do not! That was—I was impaired!” 

“Ah, yes, that’s what it was. It is not as though I haven’t slept in the same camp as you before.” She huffed, coming up empty in her arsenal of comebacks. “Although, I must admit…I find it endearing.” She looked down as her face flamed red instantly and her hands flew to her braid.

“ _Mar sil aria inas I’ve’an?_ I think you’ve lost your mind,” she said, meaning to sound lighthearted, “I’m easily the least pleasant person to be around in this company.” His bare feet came within her field of vision and fingertips brushed the bottom of her chin, the bare contact nearly startling her soul from her body, but she looked up into his face. Solas' eyes were clear as the skies above without a hint of storm or cloud of Fade. 

“I beg to differ,” he said, “You’ve been nothing but selfless since you joined us, despite all that has happened to you. You had the chance to break away from the Inquisition after Haven…but you came back.” She could hardly breathe at their proximity to each other, yet she was powerless to his gaze, frozen in place. It was then that she realised that she had lost sight of the shore. If she didn’t do something soon, she'd be pulled under. But maybe if she let the tide take her...there were other shores to be found. She could adapt, as she always had. “I’ve not encountered a spirit such as yours since...my deepest journeys into the Fade. You appreciate the secrets it has to offer and walk its paths without fear. And somehow, you are able to connect such paths to those with a simpler understanding of the world, helping them to see.” His words stabbed at her spirit like swords. _You can’t be yourself for sake of your mission,_ Dhrui’s words surfaced in her mind, driving the blade deeper. _The truth hurts..._ "So, to answer your question: no, my mind is not in the Fade. _You_ have drawn me from there." 

“Solas…” His name was all she could utter. His words seemed to have sapped all the strength from her body like a powerful spell. And still he smiled, ever so gently. His face was too near—

“Maori?” She’d never reacted so quickly to the name, putting space between them. Her mind raced with inappropriate emotions. She felt like crying.

“I’ll be right down!” she called to Yin. Solas wasn’t looking at her when she sat at the edge of the hatchway. His fists were clenched loosely at his sides and he seemed to be in a similar state of mind. “ _Ma revas’em_.” That got his attention, but now there was no sign of the raw emotion he had just shown her. She placed her hand over her heart, hoping to draw him back out. She was a stupid, stupid woman. His hand twitched, then slowly lifted to rest upon his own breast. She smiled and then dropped through the open door to answer Yin’s calling.

“Was I interrupting something?” he asked as she pulled him out of the tower to go _anywhere else_. He cast a look over his shoulder just before she shoved him through the door of the tavern’s attic. “Oh. My. Gods. Alone with _Solas_?” 

“Shut up if you want to live. You interrupted nothing,” she hissed. He grinned through his beard, but wisely kept his silence.

“In that case, Dagna wants to meet you. She’s gonna make you some proper armour!” Then he whisked her off. Her mind, however, remained with Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Maori, you poor, contradictory, somewhat hypocritical little thing. I'm sorry.
> 
>  
> 
>  _Mar sil aria inas I’ve’an?_ =  
> lit.: “is your mind trapped in the fade?”  
> but essentially meant more like "Did you leave your mind in the Fade?/head in the clouds" sort of thing. 
> 
> _Ma revas'em_ = “You free me”
> 
> oh, and Shamun= happy pig
> 
> Used this translator. It's pretty awesome.  
> https://lingojam.com/ElvenDAI


	52. What We Have Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-QoQjV0uLI) while writing this bit. Doesn't exactly go with it, but damn, did it put me in a mood.

That night, Maordrid and Dhrui did their best to make her tower cozy and warm enough for their venture into the Fade. With Cole’s help, they’d found a few abandoned—but not filthy—rugs to cover the freezing floor. Dhrui press-ganged Blackwall into building a couple of small tables, which he seemed happy to do and promised to have them finished before they left to Adamant. But as they worked, Dhrui tried to converse with her friend only to keep receiving one to two word taciturn replies.

“You gonna tell me why you’re being shorter than usual? And I’m not referring to your height,” Dhrui remarked as they put additional padding on the crunchy mattress in the loft.

“I fucked up.” Dhrui bent over, laughing. She was beginning to see what her brother had meant in that it was hard to determine Maordrid’s true mood.

“Sorry, what? Maordrid the Precise _fucked up_?” she asked. Maordrid nodded, laying down to test the bed and grimacing when the whole frame shook unsteadily and creaked like a broken shutter in a violent wind. 

“Yes, in that I let Cullen build this thing,” she said, getting back up before it could collapse. “No, I…I’m not sure what happened. Solas and I were here earlier. Together. Alone. I might have acted stupidly, I don’t know.” Dhrui’s hands caught her by the shoulders and spun her around. “I can’t stop thinking about it!” The woman looked hysterical. It was difficult to take this seriously.

“This is good! You’re admitting you’ve been lying to yourself!” Maordrid looked less than amused, but Dhrui wasn’t cowed.

“No, this is the opposite of good. We went over this today,” she said, pulling from her grip. “He thinks I’m something I’m not, but everything he said was so sweet and—ugh!” She sat down on the bed again and even though she was light, the board came loose directly under her arse and fell, taking her with it. Dhrui laughed uproariously as her friend cursed up a storm in...Tevene? 

“Calm down, you’re all over the place,” she said, pulling Maori out of the hole. “Breathe, _hahren.”_ She lowered Maori down onto the floor of the loft, watching her closely. “Solas said something nice—that’s a first. But let me guess, you got spooked and ran or something?” The woman shrugged, running her hands along her braid, staring into the weaving of the rug beneath them.

“I care for him,” _Obviously._ “And I’m afraid that it runs deeper than that. I’m afraid that if I let it go, that if I don’t stop it…” Maordrid sighed, stilling her hands and dropping them in her lap. “Eventually he will find out who and what I am. I can’t say how that will go.” 

“This is new for you in this timeline?” Dhrui said and she got a nod in answer. “Maybe you should decide who you are.” She saw the struggle on the ancient’s face, and then the surprise. “Are you Maordrid…or someone else? Who is going to survive in the end?” She knew Maordrid was prone to bouts of internal debate, and now was one of those moments. She wondered if it was an ancient elf thing, if they saw time differently, taking their thoughts long and slow. 

“I feel closer to myself than I have since I was…very young,” Maordrid said, leaning her head against the edge of the bed. “I was Yrja during the height of the Empire. One of countless weapons in the hundred-hand titan that was the Evanuris’ dominion.” Dhrui tried to maintain a respectful expression, but every time her friend began telling stories she couldn’t help but feel like a _da’len_ again before their Keeper. “Retrospectively, I do not like who I was then. But…part of who I was then still drives me forward today.”

“You were called Yrja?” Maordrid nodded. 

“That name I held the longest.” The way she spoke reminded Dhrui of a person speaking of an old friend become enemy. “Yrja was cruel, she did what needed to be done. She survived. It is what my people still call me today.”

“What about your younger self?” Dhrui asked gently, earning in turn a small smile.

“I heard it for the first time in ages, just days before I returned to you in the Dales,” Maori said. “Naèv Enso...friend of the Stone. _New eternity.”_

“That isn’t Elvhen,” Dhrui said, but then again, it didn’t sound like any of her names were.

“It isn’t. Just an old dead language I encountered whispered by spirits,” she said. “But I am Maordrid now. The wiser version of Enso.”

“Then that’s all you need to be. Solas doesn’t need to know that you were Yrja or…anyone else,” Dhrui said. Maordrid smiled but it didn’t seem directed at her. Another secret. “You deserve happiness—everyone does. If you ever decide that he needs to know what you stand for, then hopefully he will care enough to understand.” She was surprised when a tear rolled down Maori’s cheek.

“Thank you,” she laughed, brushing it away. “Your words have more wisdom than you know.” 

“Oh, I know all right. But I’ll take the praise,” Dhrui said with a smile. “Now tell me you’re going to be okay.” 

“I’m going to sleep. And so are you,” she said, turning to fix the board that had defected. “Prepare for more emotions.” Dhrui smirked and helped her fix it, then set her own bedroll on the ground. There was no way the bed would support them both. Maordrid climbed beneath her blanket and closed her eyes. “I’ll find you. Be careful.”

Dhrui settled down, too excited to sleep. Every so often she glanced up at Maordrid to find her breaths already slowing. _Damn ancient, living so slow._ It took every bit of training in meditation to calm her body and mind, but eventually she managed and crossed into the Fade.

She had never been particularly good at controlling her dreams, even though Keeper Deshanna had tried to help her learn. And before they’d joined Clan Lavellan, they had lived apart from their Dalish father. He had been a very good Dreamer and had visited his children on a nightly basis, always creating lovely dreams for them until they were able to be together in person. 

An imitation of him appeared before her then, grinning ear to ear as she remembered him. Yin had his curly black locks and burly stature, which perhaps was why her and her brother got along so well. He reminded her of Father. Her and Raj had gotten their mother’s fairer features and all of her quick wit.

“Who is this?” a familiar voice asked, and Dhrui turned to see Maori emerge from the forest she had conjured of her mind.

“My father,” she said, turning back to him. “Braern.” Maordrid smiled at him and bowed respectfully. 

“I heard a tale that your father was a magical dwarf,” Maordrid said. Dhrui groaned internally.

“Yin,” she said, “Well. My father’s doing too, but that’s a story for another time.” She took full stock of Maori for the first time. She was wearing intricate dark red plate armour, holding a helmet in style of a demon’s face beneath her arm. Her normally braided hair was shorter, pulled and twisted into a topknot high on her head and her exotic tilted eyes were lined with kohl, complimenting the steel of her irises. 

“Shall I show you a bit of Elvhenan now?” she asked, looking over with a sly grin. Dhrui noticed the woman also seemed brighter and sharper here. Maordrid reached out and touched her shoulder—around them the Fade swirled and shifted. Dhrui nearly hurled but managed to keep it inside when they came to a stop. They were suddenly seated in a gilded gondola, drifting along waters made of aether. On one side was a white forest that sang with harmonic music—halla grazed at its edge and multi-hued fish swam in the treetops. A serpent the length of four ships with scales made of opal passed below their tiny craft as though it were the most normal thing in the world. When Dhrui, overwhelmed, looked port side she saw that the river lacked a second bank. It faded into nothing and beyond were more landmasses floating above a verdant forest. In the distance she could see a shining city. It whispered to her, beckoning.

“Where are we?” she asked, noting that her voice sounded fuller and sonorous. Even Maordrid’s laugh sounded like its own song.

“That city you see is Arlathan. I figured up here you could get a decent view of part of our world,” she said. “But do you feel it? Close your eyes and describe it to me.” Dhrui didn’t _want_ to close her eyes, but she did and let herself listen. There were strange little vibrations in the air in front of her where Maori was sitting. Curiously, she honed in on it and realised it had a…taste? Or a smell? Like a spring sun shining on a fruit tree. It made her feel uplifted when she drew close, but when she focused elsewhere it faded away. “There’s something around you. It reminds me of a magical aura, but it’s different because…is it magic?” Maori graced her with another chuckle and the strange aura shifted to something sharper and exhilarating, that filled her ribcage with a familiar feeling. She sat taller. _Pride._ “Are those your bloody _emotions_?” The woman’s eyes shined bright in a way Dhrui had never seen in anyone’s—it was like she was _more_ , unconfined to the body before her. 

“Emotions emphasised our speech and aided in communicating true meaning. You could imagine threats carried a lot more weight if they could be felt,” Maori said.

“Or love,” Dhrui added. Maordrid’s eyes—more silver than dark steel here—locked on hers. 

“It was all connected to magic. When the Veil severed it from us, everything became internalised. An entire civilisation dependent on magic sundered and shattered as if built upon glass.” Their surroundings shifted again, less nauseating this time and they were standing upon a raging battlefield. Dhrui found herself clinging to Maordrid’s arm as the air filled with strong emotions that assaulted every sense. Her sight dimmed, her chest tightened to the point that it hurt and her heart galloped. Cold sweat sprang out of every pore and her legs went weak. She recognised anger—outrage, even—and something akin to betrayal, but blacker. With a wave of her hand, the air cleared of acrid emotions and Dhrui collapsed to her knees, suddenly able to breathe again. When she’d reclaimed her feet, she joined Maordrid at the top of a small rock and looked across the sea of flashing magic and weapons and armour. 

“What is happening?” she asked, thoroughly bewildered. 

“In short, this is one of many battles. This is a…relatively small war between the Evanuris and a pantheon—for lack of a better word—that was antithesis to them. The Forgotten Ones.” Maordrid paused as they watched some kind of spectral dragon swoop down from the skies, raking its claws along the ground, ripping apart all in its path before vanishing midair. “The Forgotten Ones refused to bow to the Evanuris.”

“And the Go—the Evanuris didn’t like that, did they?” Dhrui said. Maordrid shook her head.

“No. And they could not ignore the Forgotten Ones because of the power they wielded.” Even without the tangible emotions, Dhrui could see that her friend was deeply troubled by what she knew. She was afraid to ask. “There is still much that even I do not understand. But here before us is a battle against Geldauran before he vanished.”

“Were the Forgotten Ones not locked away by Fen’harel?”Dhrui asked. 

“They were, though I have learned that anything is possible,” Maori said, squinting at something in the distance. Dhrui watched the battle continue in uneasy silence for a time until Maordrid turned her back to it, clasping her hands behind her. “The troubles of my time make those in the age of Dragon pale in comparison. Unfortunately, Fen’harel only drew a curtain over most of those issues.” Dhrui’s eyes went unfocused on Maordrid for a moment as she noticed something in the distance. The roiling sea of conflict was parting like silk, allowing something to pass through—and quickly. “Forgive me.”

“For what?” Dhrui asked, flicking her eyes back to the woman.

“I could have brought you somewhere more pleasant like a garden or a ball than some gruesome memory of mine.” The thing in the background was getting closer now, displacing the reenacting spirits. Maordrid sensed the alarm in her, eyebrows drawing down before turning slowly. Her eyes narrowed and her shoulders squared defensively.

“What is that thing?” Dhrui asked, attempting to get closer. Maordrid threw an arm out.

“Move! We need to get out of he—!” A shadowy, shapeless mass lurched from the middle of the field and collided with the elf, sweeping her clean off the rock and into the battle below. Dhrui panicked when Maordrid didn’t rise. The shadow swirled and pulsated like a black heart, obscuring any sign of her. 

But suddenly a great blast of light pierced the creature and she saw the warrior struggling to hold the darkness at bay with a brilliantly glowing spear. The woman’s eyes burned like molten moonstones, emanating a light of untold power.

“Maori!” she screamed.

“WAKE UP!” Her words thrust her from the dream violently. Emerging from that world into the waking was devastating. The loss of so much feeling and magic—the sense of being _more_ —instantly pulled a sob from her. She felt as though she had lost half of herself. And perhaps that was true. Dhrui scrambled up, tossing her blankets away and summoned a magelight, casting it over the bed at Maordrid. But the other elf was asleep and unresponsive to her attempts to rouse her. A light sheen of sweat began to appear on Maori’s skin.

Dhrui panicked, thinking fast. She all but leapt from the loft, sprinting out of the tower, down stairs—her surroundings blurred. The rotunda was empty and why she thought Solas might actually sleep in there was foolish in itself, but she didn’t stop. 

“The rooms above the garden,” she panted, tripping up the stairs. She dashed past Vivienne’s little balcony and ripped through the door onto the walk above the gardens. _What are the odds that we’d encounter trouble in a memory of Elvhenan?_ she thought as she stopped by the first door, casting her aura out. There was someone sleeping on the other side, but they weren’t a mage. She moved onto the second, then the third, and finally the fourth where she was prevented from seeing in by a ward at the door with a familiar magical signature. Dhrui grabbed the door handle and shouldered it open, setting the wards off. Solas flew from his bed in surprise, hands wreathed in ice.

“Dhrui? What are you doing here?” he demanded, dispelling his wards. 

“Maordrid. She’s in trouble—we went into the Fade and something got her. She won't wake,” she cried. Solas paled in the dark and then looked back at his bed.

“Foolish woman,” he said with a curse, snatching up his shirt and pulling it on. “Where is her body?” 

“The tower, but what…I don’t know if you can even do anything—what do we do?” she asked, following him out of his room. 

“We find her.” His jaw was clenched and his eyes were like blue lightning captured in crystal as they ran back to the tower. She began to regret everything they had done. She felt like it was her fault that her friend was in trouble, but she didn’t know how. 

They burst through the door, Solas hardly breaking stride to climb up the ladder to kneel at Maordrid’s side. Strange burn marks had formed around her wrists and neck and a little blood was leaking from her nose. Solas quickly lay down on Dhrui’s abandoned bedroll, glancing quickly at her.

“Don’t go back into the Fade. Watch over us. If I do not wake by the morning, fetch the Inquisitor,” he ordered, waiting for her to nod before closing his eyes. Tears flowed freely from her own. She sat herself at the foot of Maordrid’s wobbly bed and assumed her watch in silent grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/  
> I got a tumblr. :>


	53. The Colour of Silence

She did not remember how she had gotten here. Something felt off, like experiencing a reoccurring dream and trying to remember what came next. 

But the chains around her wrists, ankles, and neck were not a dream. She was one elf in a line of many—prisoners of war. But whose prisoners? She could not really remember what they had been fighting for. At her lowly rank, she did not get to question the cause. That was how one got sacrificed to power weapons. Fighting in battle was a privilege. 

Her feet shuffled forward, pulled into motion by the elf in front of her. They were joining another cause. Another master. That meant their old master had been defeated. The spoils of war changed hands yet again. A new life, an old custom.

Agonised wails shattered the air in front of her as the elf at the front of the line was initiated. _Does our new master want to brand us? Or do they want a sacrifice?_

She shook her head—that strange feeling of displacement would not go away. Like she did not belong. _Why can’t I remember where I was just yesterday? Or even an hour ago?_

There were marks on her wrists from the manacles. Her palms were burned as if she had gripped a molten spear—her vision went white suddenly with agony, causing her to stumble forward gripping her head and nearly slamming into the prisoner in front of her. Something in her told her to hold onto that pain, pull through it. She gritted her teeth and strained to focus on her hands as that seemed to evoke the—it happened again and suddenly she saw herself fighting a formless shadow. A spear gripped in her hands, glowing white with her true magic, and Aegis holding the thing away. She fled, changing forms, but it came after her, snaring her to the ground. 

“ _Foounnd youuu.”_

Sharp, stinging pain brought her back to her place in the line of prisoners. Two phantoms bore down upon her with whips.

“ _You will think only when He allows it. Your mind is no longer yours to control.”_ The command was not spoken—there was only silence. It came to her as a thought, but not her own, for she did not think, she did not think…she…the silence was deafening, but it was not quiet enough. It had never been quiet enough. But it would. She merely needed to understand. The People never had, they needed to shut up—to stop thinking—relish the silence and listen to the song.

_Listen._

_It is unlike anything they have ever known._

_It existed before them and they disrupted it with their squabbling._

**_LISTEN._**

It was beautiful. It was all she heard. Simple and powerful.

_Yes, come to me. Let me sing upon your flesh—let it settle deep within for the new eternity._

Cold stone rose up to meet her soles. The chains grew taut, guiding her to the altar where she would conduct his symphony. He needed her help, he had been weak for far too long— _your song, it is sweet, but it is too loud. I will show you, Traveller. I will bring us home._

_The red will guide our way. Take it into your skin. Wear me proudly._

A tight, red hot pain exploded in her ears. Her focus was scattered, but she could hear herself faintly. Her hands gripped familiar tools—a bowl of beautiful, singing red dust in one hand and a runed knife in another. 

_Quiet your heart, there is nothing to fear. There is nothing to feel. Let them fade._

She screamed as her left hand dragged the edge of the blade down her right shoulder, through her bicep, forearm, and tip of her forefinger. Blood dripped along the altar. Take the red into yourself. Her left hand shook, reaching into the bowl. 

“This is red lyrium.” She was not supposed to speak, he would punish her. The phantoms appeared again at the edges of her vision, silent wardens, waiting, should she...

“ _Do not question him!”_ Her fingers pinched the dust, resisting the urge to grab a handful. 

“I do not want this!” Her voice echoed loudly—deafening. She fought the need to move her hand gripping the lyrium. She could feel her pulse through the wound in her arm—hear it loudly in the air around her. Every agonised breath and heartbeat louder than the next. “QUIET!” She screamed as her voice caused an agony she had never known possible. Blood dripped from her nose from the building pressure in her sinuses. _I yield_ , she thought, sprinkling the lyrium into the wound at the tip of her finger.

The silent cacophony stopped. She wept.

Her hand moved to gather a fistful of red lyrium, to sow it into her blood.

“Please!” she sobbed, “I will do anything! Just not this!” 

All noise fled from the world, then converged at a single point just below the altar, exploding forward in a resounding **_BOOM._** Maordrid fell backward, losing the knife and bowl, head striking stone. Dazed, the only thing she could make out of her surroundings was the presence of something powerful warping reality.

_I am in the Fade,_ she suddenly realised when the air rippled before her. She struggled to sit up, hearing something like a wolf snarling. Somehow, she found her feet—but lost her sight. Something grabbed and lifted her, rendering her weightless.

Then, it was silent. Maordrid screamed, terrified that her master had won and clawed at the thing holding her. She fought even when her vision returned—she was blinded by absolute fear. A man yelped in pain and suddenly hands grabbed her wrists, pinning them into soft grass so that she could not move. Legs straddled her hips, away from her kicking legs.

“Maordrid!” the man shouted above her. “You are safe—I have you.” She could only stare, chest heaving in uncontrolled swells.

“ _It is too late, I am dying, it’s over!”_ she sobbed, slamming her head against the ground. He cursed and pressed his forehead against hers, keeping her from moving entirely.

_“Listen to me. Focus here, now,”_ he said. The tempest stuttered, slowing around her, but there was pain in her right arm. “ _Yes. There you are. What is my name?”_

 _“You’re…”_ she tried to shake her head, but a hand came up and rested against her cheek. She stared into blue-grey eyes. _“Solas.”_

 _“What language am I speaking?”_ Her mouth moved silently, but nothing came out. “ _Maordrid.”_

 _“Elvhen. You are speaking Elvhen!”_ Something in her hand was pulsating—her finger. _Oh no_. Her panic started to rise again, but Solas adjusted his grip on her, drawing her attention once more. She struggled to draw even breaths, but every second that passed she knew that _poison_ was going to spread.

_“You must calm yourself. That creature nearly bound you here—to it,_ ” he said. 

“ _Do you know who I am?_ ” she whispered in horror. _Does he know? Does he see through me? Did he hear?_ But the confused expression on his face told her no. He sighed, face softening. Solas released her—she saw her own blood on his hands—and pulled her to a sitting position. She warily scanned their surroundings, calming some when she realised they were alone at the top of a grassy hillock facing a tranquil sea. There was nowhere the creature could be hiding, waiting to strike again.

“ _Maori,”_ he said, drawing her attention. She noticed there was soot on his cheeks and forehead as if he had run through a fire. “ _The danger you are in is much more serious than I thought. It is not safe for you to be here.”_ She looked down at her middle finger and recoiled—a small red crystal was growing from its tip. She slowly hid it behind her back. _“I sense that your connection is thinning with the Fade. That is good. When we wake up, we will talk more. Are you ready?”_ She nodded hesitantly as he leaned forward again with a tenuous, worried smile and pressed his forehead to hers one more time. _“Wake up.”_

She jarred the bed, nearly breaking it sitting up as fast as she did. Her arm was bandaged, but her back burned with the gashes left from the spectral whips. Dhrui appeared before her, but Maori ignored her as her eyes caught the gleam of the evil little crystal in her finger. She flew from the bed, jumping over Solas as he woke, and slid down the ladder. Sweat ran in rivulets down her temples as she set her hand flat against the stone floor and summoned a blade, raising it above her head.

“Maordrid?” Solas asked from above. “ _Fenedhis!”_ She brought the edge down upon the middle of her finger, severing it in one blow. She screamed as blood spurted from the wound, biting down on her braid to stifle her cries. Her friends scrambled behind her, Solas nearly tumbling over as he summoned a healing spell around her wound. She applied pressure, drawing ragged breaths through her teeth. Dhrui appeared with more bandages, pouring water over it before covering the wound. 

“Red lyrium,” she panted, trying not to pass out. Solas’ lips pressed together in a thin line. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” Dhrui demanded as she summoned her own healing magic. “One moment we’re having a conversation—the next you’re in a fight for your life?” 

“It appears that a powerful entity has taken control of another spirit and has been manipulating _it_ into hunting her,” Solas said, focusing on his spell. Maordrid was trying to make sense of the entire thing, not sure she should even begin to ask Solas what he had seen. 

“Did you see it?” Maordrid closed her eyes, silently cursing Dhrui’s inquisitive nature. Solas growled his frustration.

“I managed to infiltrate its vision this time, but I failed to determine _who_ or _what_ is controlling the spirit. However, it appears to be a very powerful fear demon. Or perhaps a fear and a nightmare fused into one,” he said. 

“She needs stitches and something for her back. Let’s go down to the infirmary,” Dhrui said and Solas agreed. Together, they helped Maori to her feet but stayed close to her. 

“Do you remember anything?” Solas asked her. Maori kept her silence. She’d never had a more harrowing experience than that. She couldn’t make sense of it. Her mind kept telling her she had run into a Forgotten One or an Old God itself, just as Elgalas had said. But she had never encountered either of those things in person. The Old Gods were locked in vaults far beneath the earth, slumbering even deeper within a place in the Fade. The Forgotten Ones as well. Either way, whatever it had been, it had access to Blighted lyrium and had planned to give her  vallaslin made of it. She knew the Forgotten Ones had played with the Blight—Void, they had been responsible for infecting Andruil—but the strange echoing silence? She didn’t have an answer for that. 

“She’s in shock, just leave her be,” she heard Dhrui say.

Maori sat mute and distant even when the on-duty healer sewed the remainder of the skin on her finger closed and carefully helped her to remove her shirt so he could set to working on her back. Fortunately, he didn’t need her to remove her breastband.

“Someone should stay with her,” the healer suggested, looking between Solas and Dhrui. “It isn’t a big loss, but losing part of a limb is still traumatising.” 

“Do you have any sleeping tonics?” Solas asked the human. The man nodded and retrieved a bottle, pressing into his hands. Solas came to crouch before Maori, forcing her eyes on him. He gently took her left hand in his, looking up at her solemnly. Maordrid bit back a hiss as the healer began sewing her back.

“I have never felt so powerless,” she whispered to him. “If you had not come, the red lyrium would have spread.” He scowled, hand tightening on hers briefly before releasing it so that he could sit beside her on the cot. Dhrui gave them some space, standing near the entrance of the infirmary with her arms crossed. “I owe my life to you.” 

“Think nothing of it, _lethallin,_ ” he said. “My concern only lies in keeping you safe.” She chewed her lip, trying to think of a way to broach the subject of the Nightmare demon at Adamant without letting anything on. She couldn’t, so she let it drop. But now she knew for certain that the Nightmare demon was involved—it was just being controlled by something bigger, potentially without Corypheus' knowledge. Solas had confirmed that for her. The healer finished up his work and directed her to lift her arms so he could wrap her torso in bandages. When he was done, Solas draped a thin blanket around her shoulders.

“Will you guard my dreams?” she asked. He seemed taken aback at her request. 

“I…yes, of course. I offered before, but you—”

“I know what I said and I was a fool,” she snapped, then groaned and rubbed behind her ears. They still hurt from the paradoxical silence. The very thought of being somewhere alone and quiet made her sweat. “I need help. Damn it, I do, but I do not want it.” He rested a hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

“You have me. But for now, you should take this tonic and rest. You have been through an ordeal,” he said, handing it over to her. She lifted it to her lips, but then paused just before drinking, “Do not tell anyone what happened. Not yet.” Solas nodded and she drank. After, the three of them returned to Maori’s tower, deciding that Dhrui would stay with her while Solas returned to his own room. He promised he would be waiting for her should she enter the Fade again. But fortunately, the dosage of her potion ensured a dreamless night.


	54. Serenades by the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This for the first song mentioned](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMUJX_x7Qgw)  
> [This is for "Daughter of the Sea".](https://youtu.be/tjJYxCxzVe4) <\--Maori's song/story 100% inspired by the lyrics.  
> [Guitar cover of the above song](https://youtu.be/y6iRZdZNmMQ) <\--more or less what I imagine Maori to have played on the lute? I just tried to find a purely instrumental cover. >.<
> 
> <3 Jaina Proudmoore

The next few days passed—blessedly—without event, but the tension in Skyhold began to rise as everyone prepared to march on Adamant. The Inquisition’s forces had begun mobilising and in three days, the population of the keep had greatly diminished. Yin finally called a meeting on that day to explain to the inner circle what Vyr and Alistair had found in their ride to Adamant. Simply, Erimond and the Wardens were working to gather their demon army quickly. They would be leaving in a day, just short of an entire week of rest. However, Lady Montilyet also announced during the meeting that after the battle—if everyone survived, of course—the Inquisition would be attending peace talks at the Winter Palace, though the date was still somewhat uncertain, perhaps even so far out as a month. Josephine had yet to secure the Inquisition an invitation anyway. It was there that Leliana and Josephine had determined that Corypheus was likely to make his attempt on Empress Celene’s life. That also meant that those going to the ball would be breaking off with the rest of their army to go to Val Royeaux to prepare—or more like Yin just wanted to go shopping for Satinalia gifts, which was apparently time they could afford. After, they would take a ship across the sea. Once there they would decide whether to travel south into Emprise Du Lion or head straight to Halamshiral. In case they ended up needing to reroute to Halamshiral, Yin chose Dorian, Dhrui—who had begged to come—Solas, Maordrid, and Cassandra to accompany him. Maordrid would have chosen Vivienne for her political position, but she knew that Yin tried to keep the peace amongst his party—Vivienne was haughty and quite the fire starter between Dorian and Solas. But, if they ended up going south she decided she trusted Cassandra’s sword arm over Vivienne whom she had never fought beside.

Meanwhile, Maordrid carefully communicated with her spies within the walls, making plans for the next few months. Most immediately, she sent a message to Elgalas regarding the Eluvians and then one to Inaean asking about Ghimyean’s statue. Both of those things would turn the tide for the Elu’bel, if successful. It made her sick with apprehension. 

When that was done, she managed to steal Dorian and Dhrui away for her own meeting. She decided there was not much she would benefit from explaining the Eluvians to them, but she did mention the statue. 

“So let me get this straight—you’re going to learn how to shapeshift into a _dragon?_ Wouldn’t that be beneficial for the Inquisition to have going into Adamant? You could take out that demon army like nothing!” Dorian said, blowing dust from a tome. They had gathered underneath Skyhold in the alcove library where rarely anyone ventured, according to Dorian. Maordrid suspected by the smattering of footprints in the dust, Yin and Dorian had been visiting quite often. Dhrui stood nearer to its entrance, keeping an eye out should anyone come their way. Maordrid rolled her eyes.

“Of course it would be! But say I had the ability now, how would I go about bringing that up to everyone? ‘By the by, I am a shapeshifter that knows a dragon form!’” Dorian flipped open the book, manicured eyebrows arching.

“I mean, you wouldn’t _have_ to even tell anyone—you could just slip away as you’re wont to do and swoop in, save the day,” he deadpanned. “Fine, I admit, that wouldn’t work.” Maordrid tapped the dusty desk in thought. 

“On another note, Yin from my world said that they met with Mythal in the Arbor Wilds where she gave them the means to fight Corypheus’ dragon. It was another dragon,” she said. 

“Um, excuse me, what? Mythal is alive?” Dhrui hissed, stalking into the alcove. Maori threw her hands up. “How did you fail to mention that, O Wise One?”

“She is and is not. Asha’bellanar holds a remnant of what Mythal was,” Maori said. “ _Fenedhis lasa._ I will explain later, please?” Dhrui’s nostrils flared, but she dropped it and returned to guarding the entry. 

“Anyhow,” Dorian continued, face amused, “If meeting with this Mythal gave us _two_ dragons, shouldn't we go ahead and do that? Soon?” Maordrid pulled the transcript from her belt and turned through the pages, searching. 

“Yes, but not solely because of dragons,” she said, concentrating. “Either way, I think my only opportunity is the end. The last battle. Corypheus had the focus, lifted them into the sky where they fought. Once he was killed, the magic suspending them in the air gave out and that’s when Yin suspected that the focus shattered last time.” Dorian looked at her.

“Sounds like you’d need to be very quick if you’re to snatch it away in time,” he said. “But a dragon seems a bit excessive if you’re trying to grab something so small. Why not your griffon form?” Maordrid closed her journal slowly, heart heavy.

“Because that is when I will be leaving the Inquisition if everything remains true to the book. It could be sooner, but I doubt that. Regardless, a dragon’s wings will carry me to the other side of the continent in mere hours.” Her companions looked at her in unison. Dorian slid his book back onto the shelf and came around the desk to stand before her. 

“But I thought that we were going to study the orb—is that not the purpose? Solas stated interest in doing so,” he said. Maori pursed her lips hesitantly. “You’re withholding again, Maori.” She sighed, uncrossing her arms as she figured out a way around it.

“The truth is, I do not know yet. Things are…changing,” she said, thinking of Solas. “And it sounds like it is still a very long ways off. Varric wrote that they take an entire trip into the Deep Roads to fight a Titan and then to the Frostback Basin where they find the first Inquisitor—all before the final battle. The fight at Adamant and Corypheus’ defeat at the Winter Palace completely throws him off balance. It takes him a long time to recuperate.” Dorian looked over at Dhrui and mouthed, _the fuck’s a Titan?_ The other elf shrugged.

“How long, exactly?” Dorian wondered aloud. 

“Months,” she said, gesturing to the thick stack of pages they had yet to delve into. “The Inquisition of my timeline was active for a little over a year before Corypheus was defeated.” 

“Maori, you will tell me what this is all about eventually, yes? I know you’re hiding something,” Dorian said, lowering his voice. “What is it you fear?” She met his eyes dolefully.

“That I will lose you…and everyone that I have come to care for,” she said. 

“Aw, my dear,” he drew her into his arms unexpectedly, giving her a warm squeeze. “Have faith in me! I know you’re not out to stockpile power for yourself. You travelled through time to save us all, for fuck’s sake! Do you really think I doubt you?” She sighed and slumped as he held her at arms length, looking at her hopefully. “You won’t tell me, will you.”

“I…I cannot. It could change the future,” she said. It was a half-truth. Dorian sighed and patted her. 

“I think I understand. I’m trying to see it from your perspective,” he said earnestly. “Just answer me one thing—you will tell me eventually, yes?” 

“Soon, I promise,” she said looking into his eyes as she said it. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I don’t think differently of you. Well, not _much_ ,” he said, suddenly back to his normal self. “I just hate not knowing and I have to get over it.”

“We can form our own club, Dorian!” Dhrui said from her end of the room. 

“You know, I think we should! We could hold secret meetings just to vent to one another how unfair it is not knowing the future!” he exclaimed, walking off to join the other elf. “Oh, is there anything else you needed from us, our gloomy Oracle of Doom?” Maordrid waved them off and the two of them wandered away, joking and laughing together. 

That night Maordrid sat on the edge of her bed with another sleeping potion in hand, glaring into the faded rug beneath her feet. Dhrui was at the Herald’s Rest again, getting up to who-knew what. She was alone with her own poisonous thoughts.

She set the bottle on the floor by her bed and lay down, closing her eyes. It didn’t take long to cross into the Fade—she was exhausted. She woke up in the little world that Solas had created for her and sat watching the distant waves in the ocean from atop the hillock. On a whim, she asked the Fade for a lute and was given a beautiful instrument carved of a white wood inlaid with jade along the edge of its body and neck. She began to play, only to realise that with part of her middle finger missing, strumming was…difficult. Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes. Its loss hadn’t affected her ability to fight—she had tested that out almost immediately the day after—and now that she was trying to enjoy herself…

“I thought you might be avoiding the Fade since you have not come back.” Maordrid hastily reset her composure, but glared into her lap, clenching the neck of the lute as Solas joined her.

“I came to clear my mind,” she said. “But I cannot do even that.” He observed her right hand and then the strings of the instrument, taking on a contemplative expression.

“There may be a simple solution to that,” he said, drawing her gaze. “I have seen bards wear rings on their fingers to help them pluck strings to avoid tiring quickly or developing callouses, although it may serve you well. I think they look like this…” He summoned a small ring-like object that looked more like a small talon. “May I?” She gave him her right hand and allowed him to slip it over her finger. He nodded encouragingly when she looked at him, then she strummed. The fake finger caught clumsily on the strings, but with practice she could see it working. 

“I am not sure where or when I will get one of these or a lute in the waking world anyhow,” she said. “But thank you, Solas.” She knew she could just imagine her finger whole in the Fade, but she didn’t want to cheat herself out of the reality of not having it. She tried again, picking the beginning of _Ame Amin_ in a minor key, having heard the human bard playing it in the tavern one night. Her false finger caught on the strings a few times but gradually it smoothed out. A chuckle from Solas made her fingers tangle over one another and then stop.

“Do not stop on my behalf,” he said, smiling. 

“You are laughing,” she said, feeling self-conscious. “Did I do something?”

“I simply recalled that Dhrui attempted to get me to sing the lyrics to that song a while back,” he said. “And here you are, playing it.” A smile threatened her own lips as she took up the melody again. She was no singer, but she could hum it. So she did, shyly at first until she felt another vibration in her chest—Solas was humming with her. Heart fluttering, she focused on her rhythm and tempo, trying to keep time with her humming. When her confidence finally returned, she took her eyes from her fingers and followed the white tips of the waves in the distance, feeling Solas’ voice intermingling with hers.

When the song tapered off, swept away by the distant sound of waves crashing against land, she sat back trying to catch a glimpse of Solas. He was reclining on his elbows in the grass and flowers beside her looking content. At peace. _Spirits help me, I am a weak woman._

She took a shallow breath and allowed her fingers to begin another song. _Daughter of the Sea_. Yes, a shanty he wouldn’t know. It was one of her earliest memories living: the ocean and a people that lived by it. Her conscious memory started there. Instead of singing, she projected it into the Fade, willing it to reenact the story as she played.

The song was more of a lamentation but with the sway of a shanty. The lyrics told the story of a heroine that braved untamed seas, crossing to the other side to find a cure for a sickness that was slowly claiming her people. Eventually, she made it to the fabled lands on the other side where she found medicine with another tribe, but at the price that she return to marry their leader’s son. She agreed, only to encounter a storm on the way back that destroyed her ship. The heroine was lost, but a spirit watching the tragedy take place guided the currents to carry the medicine to the shores of her village. Her people were saved for a time, mourning their lost heroine…until the son of the leader came during the next season when the seas had calmed, demanding his bride. They told him of her demise at sea, but he believed them to be hiding her. He slaughtered them all and returned to his homeland only for the wind to die halfway across, leaving his ship stranded. He began to lose men in the night to a strange, burning sickness that made them jump overboard desperate to quench their fever, only to drown. The son of the foreign leader eventually fell sick himself and it was then that the spirit of the young heroine appeared to him and revealed to him that his illness was punishment for killing her people. He swore vengeance on her for breaking her oath to him and for bringing witchcraft on his sailors. He eventually succumbed to the fever and rose as an angry spirit. The seas from then on were cursed with storms and turbulent waters as the two vengeful spirits fought for all of eternity.

When Maori ended the song and the images dissipated, Solas breathed out a single word, “ _Beautiful_.” She shifted, suddenly finding the inlaid jade fascinating. “You continue to surprise me,” he said in a soft voice. She smiled, tapping her fingers on the lute. “Your control over the Fade is impressive.” 

“That is quite the compliment from you,” she said. 

“If I was more musically inclined, I would serenade you with them.” Maordrid’s laugh rang out across their hill. The Dread Wolf serenading? 

“You have the voice for it. I could see all of Skyhold swooning over you,” she said, shoulders still shaking with laughter. His cheeks coloured lightly and he looked away toward the sea. 

“I am not interested in Skyhold’s reaction,” he said. She felt as though she’d been struck by lightning, but forced composure, looking down at the lute in her hands and getting an idea.

“Very well, smooth talker,” she said. She turned, taking her instrument and putting it in his lap, startling him into sitting up. With a small grin, she pulled his hands around it into the proper position. He watched her face with amusement, long fingers resting lightly on the strings. “You will never learn if you keep looking at me.” He let out a breathy laugh and finally looked down as she moved his fingers into position for the beginning of a simple song called _Syl,_ quite literally, ‘air’. For the next few minutes, she explained the fundamentals of playing chords, plucking patterns, and positioning fingers for optimal movement and sound. It turned out, he was absolutely terrible at it, but once she got him going, he wouldn’t stop playing terrible chords on purpose, laughing until they were both red in the face. 

She didn’t want the dream to end. In the Fade, they were both…freer and more open with their emotions— _he_ was different. She had never seen him laugh so much. Maordrid had never been good at flirting or recognising it even when it was blatantly in her face, but she _was_ good at redirecting it when she suspected it. It became a sort of game the rest of the time they spent in the dream, with him making sly comments at her and Maori shutting him down. Her elusiveness only seemed to encourage his efforts to fluster her. In a way she was relieved when she sensed her body waking up on the other side. At the end, they had hiked down to a small beach and were sitting in the sand, letting the water lap up onto their bare feet as they theorised conducting music through the Fade. But as her connection thinned, they agreed to try it out next time. His hand had found hers at one point, curling delicately around her fingers. 

When she woke up, she cradled her hand closely, clinging the fading sensation and fearing the one growing in her chest. 

Maordrid had fought many battles, but this was not one she was very familiar with. She knew she was about to be standing in the middle of it, if she wasn’t already. The question her mind posed to her heart was both simple and complicated: what side was she on?

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yea, you charm that wolf, Maori.


	55. Triumph of Four

He hadn’t slept so well since before leaving to the Conclave months ago. Bedrolls had never been particularly comfortable, but he had figured out how to pad them well enough. That hadn’t done anything to ward off the nightmares until Solas intervened—he still occasionally got strange dreams where he was running through the Fade being chased by something. There used to be flashes of pain from the Mark when it made itself part of him. They didn’t happen as often anymore, but his nightmares…well, despite Solas’ best attempts to staunch them they came as blood ignores even the finest of weaves, seeping and staining. Often, he went back with his clan only to have them disown him and run him out of camp, never stopping until he was back at Conclave where it all began again. More recently, he’d watch as a great emerald wave of magic ripped all of his loved ones into nothing. No matter the dream, it always ended the same: the Mark would spread farther up his arm like fiery brambles, crawling and creeping until it reached his heart. There, the brambles became vines that latched onto the muscle, ripping and tearing it like the wall of a ruin. By then, half his body would be a mass of unstable energy until a final rift opened in his heart, effectively killing him.

But now, Dorian woke him gently every time—before the rift ever took him. _Amatus,_ he’d whisper, and stay awake with him until the pain in his hand subsided.

That morning, he woke in Dorian’s arms without pain or memory of night terrors. Pale sunlight filtered in through the cloth of his tent. Dorian shifted beside him, opening his eyes and yawning. 

“Time already?” the mage asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Yin nodded grimly and stood up, pulling his shirt on and arranging his armour. Dorian quickly rose behind him and assisted with the new set made for him by Dagna. It had the Inquisition’s symbol hammered into the chestpiece, the silver eye ever-open to stare down his enemies. He’d even gotten a fine helm to go with it. When he was all suited up and every piece tucked in to Dorian’s liking, he turned to him before leaving the tent.

“I couldn’t imagine doing any of this without you at my side,” he said quickly. He knew Dorian hated syrupy speeches, but the man had chosen an Antivan Dalish romantic. 

“It’s true, you wouldn’t be accomplishing nearly as much,” the Altus smirked, kissing him. Yin stopped him, gripping his arms before Dorian could pull him back into bed. 

“I don’t know what awaits us at Adamant,” he said, taking a breath, then looking him in the eyes. “And I’ll admit, I’m terrified. Whatever happens…” Yin placed Dorian’s hand over his heart. “ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_.” 

“Your tongue never ceases to impress me,” Dorian sighed, leaning into him. Yin smiled widely, wrapping his arms around him, staring into the peak of the tent. It felt good to say those words at last. “Now let me get dressed.” Dorian pushed him out of the tent, but not before smacking him soundly on his arse. He couldn’t return the favour as now he was in full sight of the camp. It was strange having everyone there for once. Iron Bull and his Chargers had their own separate camp, inclusive of Sera and Blackwall. Cole never really needed a tent and Vivienne shared with Cassandra. Varric shared with Hawke this time around, his sister paired with Maori, leaving Solas in a tent by himself. However, he hadn’t failed to notice before they left Skyhold that Maordrid appeared in bad shape and had been frequently visiting Solas' tent like she had done during their trip to the Storm Coast. Upon asking—begging, more like—Solas had caved and explained to him that she’d been attacked again but was he was personally taking care of it. Whatever the Fadewalker was doing to remedy it looked like it was helping. She’d been smiling a lot despite the bruises under her eyes. He barely recognised her when she did.

He saw her then, emerging from her tent in Dagna’s armour. She wore a half-breast plate with scale mail guarding her abdomen and full plate along her arms with hands covered in fancy taloned gauntlets. She, too, had a helm, but it was far less fancy than his ‘Inquisitor’s helm. She even had a staff, all aerodynamic so as not to impede her close-combat fighting. He wondered who had talked her into that after her first one had exploded back in Haven. Dhrui emerged from the tent right behind her in enchanted Dalish mail and cloth looking every bit like a witch of the wilds, hair bound in a braided crown—with, as a final touch, a small white flower clipped above her ear. Even when Solas emerged from his tent he stalled as the girls walked by, eyes reserved for Maordrid. Yin was privately entertained by Solas’ poor attempt at ogling with discretion. But to be fair, Dagna and Harritt had a surprising knack for style in addition to their practicality.

“Shall we get a bit of training in before we get moving, Inquisitor?” Maori asked as she approached him. He saw her sneak a wink at Solas whose lips curved up ever so slightly. Yin pursed his lips against a grin, glancing behind her at his sister.

“Will Dhrui be joining?” he asked but she shook her head.

“No, she has another mission,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. He watched as his sister took off at a run out of the camp. 

“I can’t believe she’s training with you too,” he laughed. “Are you raising an army of Lavellans?” 

“Don’t blow my cover,” she said, laughing as they walked some ways from camp. “It has been a while since we practised. Do you still remember what I taught you?” Yin hid his smile and pretended to be woefully unprepared. He had done more than practice—he had come up with his own methods. Vivienne had given him a few pointers when he hadn’t been training with Solas.

Her surprise when he beat her in four moves during a warm up was a moment he was far too proud of.

“I think as Inquisitor I shall declare this a holiday!” he said, rubbing every bit of it in her face. Maordrid climbed slowly back to her feet from where he’d thrown her looking smug...which was not an expression he’d expected of her. 

“You simply caught me off guard. You and Solas conspired together, didn’t you?” she asked, setting her staff aside and summoning her spear. “I think I will have to take him on one of these days.” Yin tried not to let the flashback of their bloodied bodies on cold stone dampen his good mood. Sparring or not, the idea of the two of them heading off against one another made him ill. _Ir nulam ma_. I regret you. Yin cracked his neck. To this day, he wondered what else had been said between those two in Redcliffe. 

He decided to show her what else he had learned, setting aside his own staff and unstrapping the hollow hilt at his belt. He focused and willed his magic to take form. A shimmering green longsword flashed into existence. A wicked smile curved her lips.

“I will believe the threat when you bring me to my knees again,” she said. Yin charged her without hesitation.

The two of them got lost in their training for the next hour until Solas arrived and interrupted, come to fetch her. Yin hadn’t beat Maordrid again, but he had managed to get past her defences a handful of times. It was beyond satisfying, even if it wasn’t a victory. Even she seemed proud in her own way. It showed on her face when the two of them joined the rest and the warriors complimented his skill. 

They had a small amount of time before their group needed to be at the rendezvous point for the assault, so Maori, Cole, and Solas were going out to collect the remainder of Professor Frederic’s belongings on Yin’s request. He had hopes that the man could tell them something about dragons before they had to fight Corypheus’ archdemon thing. Meanwhile, the larger part of the group would continue onto Griffon Wing Keep to stock up from the journey over.

Just before the others split off, Yin took a moment before mounting up to look at all of his friends. He had never seen anything more glorious than them. They shone in their sharp armour beneath the black and gold banners of the Inquisition flying amongst them. Their eyes were bright with purpose, backs and shoulders straight with the high morality of being amongst friends. Yin committed the image to memory, swearing he would remember forever the brave souls that accompanied him to the ends of the world.

He didn’t lose that sentiment even when they finally reached the desert where the reality began to set in. The Inquisitor would not be daunted so easily anymore.


	56. Feather and Fur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played the crap out of [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHUHdprKIwo) while writing the...'Feather and Fur' scene, for the sake of avoiding spoilers.

They watched Yin and company ride off while they figured out on their little map where they needed to go. A generalised area west of the keep, it seemed. Maordrid knew it would have been faster for her to simply shapeshift into a predator and go hunting for these White Claw Raiders they were after, but Yin had insisted that someone go with her. Their trust in her not go get hurt had diminished significantly, which absolutely warmed her heart to know that they cared, but was also frustrating in its own right. 

They were strapping their staves to their saddlebags when Cole suddenly looked up at the sun, hands moving gently across the flanks of Yin’s former horse, Terror…who was no longer terrifying under the care of Compassion.

“To feel the heat of the desert under your wings, lifting, drifting light in the sky… _let the White Claws turn red beneath my talons…_ ” Maordrid went rigid as an icy horror over came her. She stayed where she was, hidden behind her hart, Rasanor, desperately sending Cole silent pleas to shut up. “I’m sorry, I only want to help but you never want it and I make it worse!”

“Cole?” Solas asked, walking around his Alas’nir. “Who are you trying to help?” Cole twisted his hands together uncertainly, tilting his head to one side.

“She doesn’t want me to say,” he murmured, “He won’t be mad! He’ll only like you more—listen! It runs deep, roots that reach, blossoming branches that’ve been bare so long…” Maordrid made a strangled noise in her throat as Solas turned his head slowly to look at her. She could see his mind working to untangle Cole’s words. He looked mildly embarrassed as well, but did nothing to deflect.

“He’s…talking about me,” she finally said, voice diminished. “I thought it might be easier to spot our targets. It is why I wanted to go alone initially—”

“Wings, talons? You can…shapeshift?” Solas asked, grabbing Alas’nir’s reins and leading him over.

“Yes! She’s very good. She can do—”

“Cole, please,” she said, hating the edge of desperation in her voice. Fortunately, the spirit stopped. When she hedged a look at Solas, she double-taked at the smug expression on his face.

“You were afraid of what I might think?” he asked. “Why?” 

“It is not just you, I am afraid what the others might think, too,” she said, a fabrication forming. “I am an apostate that has never been to a Circle, nor have I ever been to a Dalish Clan. I am skilled in what I do because I am not afraid to walk the Fade. I have learned _so_ much from it—as you have. If they knew I could shapeshift, Cassandra, Cullen…and whoever else originally suspected me of possession will go on another witch hunt.” It was a half truth, really. Solas’ face grew thoughtful, but there was a sort of shadow behind his eyes. “They would never understand. They shun any knowledge derived from the arcane. And it is already a rare ability…”

“Did you ever plan to tell me?” She looked up at him, conflicted.

“Yes,” she said, thinking quickly. “I thought to at Adamant where there will be too much chaos for anyone to realise it was me. But…I suppose now is most ideal. _Ir abelas_ , it is an old paranoia.” She noticed he had dropped his reins and was… _prowling_ closer to her. The armour he’d been given had light Elvhen touches to it—a leather chestpiece and spaulders of tiered chevrons, strapped over a robe of deep, silent blue. The way the ends of his robe swayed as he moved enthralled her. He stood only a pace away with eyes that would be inscrutable to anyone else. Except, she knew that the Dread Wolf was weighing his options.

“Clever thing,” he finally said. Not at all what she was expecting him to say and it likely showed on her face. There was something…else in his eyes. Something like hunger. It made her knees go weak. “I am curious about the other half of Cole’s words—the White Claws. You fight in form as well?” She swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded pathetically. He loomed above her and suddenly she was very aware of just how tall he was in respect to her. Her head barely grazed his chin. “I should like to see you in action.” Her eyebrows shot up and her lip twitched. “Perhaps I will join you.” _Does he mean what I think…?_

“You will not be able to catch up,” she said, eyes falling briefly on the blackened jawbone resting on his chest that he wore even with his armour. 

“Is that a challenge?” She gave him an unimpressed smile to counter his own cocky one. A little spark of audacity ignited a fire in her, and she reached up, resting her hand on his chest, allowing her fingers to entangle with his amulet. His breath hitched, hands twitching at his sides. With a dexterous twist of her fingers, she twined the cords around them and pulled his head down to her level so that they were eye to eye.

“The sand will be claiming their bodies by the time you reach them and I have moved on,” she whispered. Then she released him, stepped back, and in a burst of black arcane smoke shot into the air as a massive hawk-owl hybrid. It was a form she favoured when she wanted to avoid attention but sought to hunt. The hybrid looked like any old bird of prey from below. 

In seconds, she had soared high enough into the sky that she could see Griffon Wing Keep in its entirety. Below, she saw Solas handing his reins off to Cole. Her pulse spiked as she saw him take off at a sprint in the sand, then disappeared into a cloud of steely-grey smoke. Her hawk’s eyes widened when a black wolf emerged, racing over the dunes.

The hunt was on.

She caught sight of the first group of White Claws across a sandy ravine, moving in a group of four and easily distinguishable in their uniforms of red and white. Below, she saw Solas was following her shadow on the ground. _Cheater,_ she thought as she dove straight down at the Raiders. She momentarily turned back into an elf once she touched the ground.

“You are the ones with the scholar’s property?” she asked, stalking up to them. Their leader, a tall but muscular fellow, sneered and wordlessly unsheathed a sword as his three friends fanned out with their weapons. Maori stepped back. "Very well. Have it your way," she said and called upon her panther aspect. She launched herself at the first man, locking her jaws around his throat while her hind legs disembowelled him. She snapped his neck then dragged his corpse down as an archer fired a shot. The arrow thunked into her meat shield harmlessly and she released him, rolling in the sand to avoid another arrow before she sprinted at him with a yowl. He swung at her with his bladed bow, screaming in terror when she skirted around him and swiped at his back, razorlike claws turning leather armour and flesh into ribbons. As he collapsed, she finished him off, stepping along his back and leaping to the next Raider, using the second one’s neck as a springboard. The others fell like reeds in tempest winds, dead before hitting the sand. 

She paused above the last body of a man who had been in possession of a fine rucksack that upon examination proved to be full of tools that clearly didn’t belong to a mercenary. It was then that a large black wolf appeared above the edge of the ravine, finally having caught up. She bared her bloody teeth in what was meant to be a grin. He barely paused before taking off at another sprint to the south. She cursed, shedding the panther to shoulder the pack as an elf, then burst back into her raptor form. She caught up to him quickly and flew just two meters above him as a taunt, eyes scanning the landscape. Her enhanced eyes honed in on an encampment just before the desert turned into rust-coloured rock formations. A glimpse of red and white on the figures milling about told her all she needed to know. 

She left the Dread Wolf behind in a blast from her powerful wings that lifted her once again to great heights as she prepared for another aerial assault. As she was coming down, she gave a mental curse as Solas caught up. This time, she landed in her panther form without turning into an elf first, attacking the nearest mercenary. Their angry shouts quickly changed to startled screams as Solas joined the fray. The cocky elf cast spells as he fought, which required a finesse and control over one’s mana reserves that few today had, if any at all. She wasn’t willing to reveal that she too could do that. Not this time. She stuck with tearing unarmoured throats out with her teeth. 

At the end of that fight, she left Solas in charge of retrieving Frederic’s possessions as she took off to find the next targets. She stayed in her panther form, determined to beat him on four legs fairly. She didn’t know how sharp a sense of smell a wolf had, but as a great cat, she smelled the next set of sweating humans just over the edge of the dunes near a structure of Tevinter origin. 

It turned out, Solas was much faster than she thought. He appeared right at the edge of her vision keeping pace easily. It was harder to run through sand as a panther, a problem that he didn’t seem to have. He made the first strike, much to her chagrin. She had always been competitive, even in their time when there had been elves with superior magical abilities. The old prideful drive to be _better_ clawed its way to the surface as he took out two of the five men before she managed to take down just one. As she was facing off with another archer, the old wolf leapt over her with a snarl as he wreaked havoc on a warrior that had tried to skewer her in the back. 

In seconds, they were standing in a haphazard circle of bodies. Maordrid finally released from her feral form and looked over at Solas who did the same. A streamer of bright red blood painted his mouth, down the front of his neck. She was sure she looked just as wild.

“I believe that was all of them,” he said, stooping to search a small chest one of them had been carrying strapped to their back. He added it to his own bag. “We dispatched two other groups the last time we were here.” She nodded and surveyed the desert, trying to guess where Frederic’s camp might be. She sensed Solas approaching her and turned to face him, squinting against the sun. “You hunt well, _banvherassan._ ” 

“As do you, wolf,” she said, bowing elegantly. “I must say, I am pleased you joined me the way you did.” He smiled, shifting his burden of loot on his shoulder. “We share the same concerns regarding the others, no?” He nodded once.

“I figured it was a fitting way to tell you that you are not alone,” he said, sending her heart aflutter. “I will keep your secret, if you keep mine.”

“You never needed to ask.” Maori temporarily dropped her pack and for the second time that day, stepped within arm’s reach of him, removing a kerchief from her person. With one hand, she held his face still as she wiped the blood from his mouth and neck with her other. His brows arched in surprise and a small, embarrassed chuckle escaped him once she was done. As she turned to pick up Frederic’s things, Solas grabbed her by the waist and spun her around, resting his hand lightly on the crest of her hip. A small noise of surprise escaped her. “You very well cannot return the Professor’s belongings looking like that.” He then wiped at her face with his own kerchief, smirking openly. He made careful, even strokes across her lips then down her chin as though she were one of his frescoes. It took a prolonged second to rein her mind back in, after which she batted him away, laughing and wiping at the rest with her hand. She couldn’t handle him being that close to her mouth.

“Shall we rid ourselves of this burden and find Cole? I feel bad having taken off like that,” she said. 

“You needn’t worry, I told him to meet us at the Professor’s camp,” he said as they began walking. “It is not far from here. Come.” 

Part of their journey was made in silence. As the rush of hunting with the Dread Wolf wore off, she had begun to ponder whether admitting to Cole’s prying had been as harmless a confession as the spirit had seemed to think. Cole only ever did things that he knew would help and he definitely knew by now who and what she was. According to the transcript, the spirit boy had also known Solas’ true identity all along but had never appeared to betray his inner secrets to anyone. Then again, she was perhaps the foolish one in thinking that Solas might be suspicious of her—he had just ‘revealed’ to her that he, too, could shapeshift. He trusted her more implicitly than anyone else. The revelation was both thrilling and worrying. If anyone in the Elu’bel found out, they would press her to abuse that bond. She was surprised at the anger it evoked. Somehow, he seemed to sense something was off. The back of his hand brushed against hers as if asking _are you okay?_ As she was fixing for words, he ran a finger along hers, testing. It was so simple a gesture, and yet it inflamed her ragged emotions. 

She took his hand. Her inner voices of survival screamed warnings, bells, and all else at her, but when his fingers laced between hers firm and warm, they went quiet.

They walked the rest of the way like that, witnessed by nothing other than the stars of early twilight. Every so often, she sneaked small glances up at him in disbelief, seeing him doing the same out of the corner of his eye. But each time she looked he was gazing ahead. She enjoyed the view of his sharp jawline to which she had grown so weak to, and weaker still at the contentedness upon his lips and eyes and brow. To think that she brought him such inner calm was a bizarre notion to her. She hadn’t thought herself capable of making anyone happy - she didn't know how. Whatever it was, she was... _enjoying_ it.

Professor Frederic was happy to receive them and had been chatting away to Cole when they arrived. The human then promptly forgot that the boy existed when they handed over his beloved assets. Upon asking, Maordrid discovered that he was trying to study a dragon in the area. Eerily, it happened to be the type that she had been trying for so long to perfect as her form. The scholar, unfortunately still needed a few things done, such as finding some ancient Tevinter manuscript he suspected was located in a ruin to the northeast of his camp…and then something about finding out the dragon’s hunting patterns.

Maordrid was put out. Seeing an Abyssal in the wild would have made the ending of her day perhaps one of the best she’d had in years. Unfortunately, it was growing dark and they had to trek all the way out to the Keep to meet up with everyone. 

“You seem disappointed,” Solas remarked as they walked to the harts that were happy to see them. Maordrid ran her hand along Rasanor’s nose in thought. The hart nuzzled into her palm and stepped, keen eyes eager for action. 

“I had hoped to glimpse the dragon,” she professed. Solas chuckled.

“You were not joking when you told Iron Bull you liked dragons, were you?” he said, swinging up into his saddle. She followed suit and heeled her hart into motion as the other two followed at her flanks.

“They are majestic and untamed spirits. Remnants of an old, unforgiving world,” she said. “Like looking upon the sea, I am reminded of how insignificant my life is relative to the vastness of the world. It is…grounding.” 

“You think something different when you say you’re insignificant,” Cole piped up again and Maori sighed. “You say it softer but you hear their voices, _worthless_ , they whisper, _witless, without purpose_. But your purpose has always been the same.” Her hands gripped the reins in a white knuckled grip. “They don’t think that of you now, you know. You mean more.”

“I am doing my best, Cole,” she replied tightly. She felt Solas’ aura reach out to her softly, but she pulled away, heart aching. “It is hard to erase their hate.”

“I could help you forget, if you like,” he offered, but she shook her head.

“No,” she said, voice cracking like ice. “Don’t.” She clicked her tongue and rode at a slightly faster pace to put herself just ahead of them so they wouldn’t see her mask cracking. _You don’t understand, Cole. Their hatred is mine now and I must carry it or I will not complete my duty. I cannot care for myself or I will fear the inevitable end._

She heard Cole give a painful gasp and knew she’d hurt him with her thoughts. Maordrid hurriedly warded her mind off so completely that she couldn’t even sense Solas’ mage aura. 

“Leave her be, my friend. Some hurts run too deep to be healed,” she heard Solas say. She closed her eyes, then let Rasanor gallop his way to Griffon Wing Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Solas can absolutely shapeshift and could have at some point during DAI-- **change my mind.**_  
> 
>  Also, I've been waiting sooo long to post this chapter. I poured a lot into it, so I hope you all enjoyed it.
> 
>  _banvherassan_ =panther (lit. black tiger)


	57. Caprice

Several hours passed by before Solas, Maordrid, and Cole returned from their quest. Everyone finally relaxed when they arrived, glad to see them safe. Except, Dhrui was the only one who seemed to think it was strange that Maordrid rode in ahead of Solas and Cole. The woman may have had everyone else fooled with that serene, impenetrable mask, but she had made the mistake of letting Dhrui Lavellan see beneath it. Maori’s eyes were too avoidant of faces, looking past them instead of meeting them confidently and her movements were even more calculated when she was upset. As if she were just going through the strokes of life with only the most necessary actions. 

When they had stabled their mounts for the night and went to stow away their packs, Dhrui watched Maordrid from her cot in the barracks that had been rebuilt since they claimed it. The older elf’s eyes kept flicking to and from Solas who was staying on the opposite side of the open chamber. Dhrui busied herself with gathering the clothes she needed to go bathe in the pools beneath the keep soon. Just above the edge of her cot, Dhrui caught the two make eye contact. Maordrid quickly grabbed her things and rushed to the door, pausing as if she wanted to say something to him but then she decided against it and slipped out. Solas let out a breath that no human could have heard from her distance, throwing his stuff over his shoulder before departing as well.

“The angst is strong in those two, amirite?” a mirthful voice asked from behind her. Dhrui’d forgotten Sera was in the room. The other girl had stripped down to a ratty sleeveless top due to the lingering heat of the day. 

“Enjoying the show?” Dhrui said, getting to her feet and kicking her things beneath her bed.

“Hard to enjoy anything that Solas is involved with. Mao hasn’t been much fun since she got back. Y’don’t think it’s cause of him, do you? I swear, I’ll put those spiny sand lizards in his bedroll if he’s done anything,” Sera said, hopping down off the table she’d been lounging on. Dhrui shrugged, not knowing what to say. 

“You gonna go down to the waters with everyone else?” she asked to change the subject. Sera snorted.

“Nah, I don’t like deep water,” she said. 

“It’s only waist-high!” Sera puckered her lips. “C’mon, it’s better than letting sweat cool you down. It gets all crusty and gross after a while.” 

“’Kay, fine. Let’s go.” 

The two of them made their way down into the caverns that had been discovered beneath the keep. There was the well where the drinking water was, but also a whole separate spot fed by an underground waterfall. Dhrui was glad that Yin had put in the requisition to have the water source cleaned out, for which everyone had rejoiced after a hot day spent beneath the desert sun. Earlier, the more modest women—Cass and Viv—had slipped away by themselves, not at all eager to participate in the ‘pool party’ Hawke decided to throw together once the others returned. 

Upon arrival, Dhrui saw that the mages had gotten creative and had drawn fire glyphs in one corner of the cave, creating a sort of sauna while everyone else went to enjoy the coolness of the waterfall at the centre. Sera broke off to go join the rowdier bunch near the waterfall while Dhrui decided on the steam. Inside the cloud, Dorian was sitting on a smooth stone discussing the upcoming Satinalia holiday with Vyr Hawke. Solas sat nearby in his breeches, head leaning back in the steam clearly tuning out the other two.

“…I mean, what do you get a man with the ability to get whatever he wants, whenever he wants?” Dorian was asking Hawke. 

“Some good wine and delicious cock to go with it. In no particular order,” Vyr replied, all the mirth in her eyes. Dhrui choked on her own laugh, earning an appreciative glance from the Champion.

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ woman, a _little_ discretion?” 

“To be honest, you’re talking about a man who talks openly about everything. That’s pretty spot on,” Dhrui chimed in much to Dorian’s already-blushing embarrassment. Vyr gestured in satisfaction.

“See? I know my men. You’re a lucky one, I almost stole Yin for myself,” Vyr said. “I happen to know my ladies as well. Bet you’re into a nice lay on a bed of flowers followed by a feast for fucking kings.” 

“You propositioning me, Lady Hawke? ‘Cause just give me some food and we’re good,” Dhrui said. The Champion waggled her eyebrows in answer, then turned her glacial gaze to Solas who had hardly stirred.

“No, because I still haven’t figured out what Solas’ weakness is—oh, I mean, what his figurative Satinalia gift would be,” she said. Dorian gave a high pitched laugh and smoothed his damp hair back.

“Easy. Long walks on Fade beaches and orgies with spirits. Done.” Solas lifted his head just far enough to glare at Dorian through lidded eyes. “Maker, I’m  joking, Solas, it’s called a joke.” He just scowled. 

“So…I take that as a no,” Hawke said.

“Solas, I swear if you lose me my bet we can never be friends,” Dorian said. 

“Why am I not surprised you have a bet on me?” Solas muttered, folding his legs beneath him lazily. Dhrui had heard of the bet in the early days of her joining. Usually she was one to partake in wagers, but this time she found she didn’t have the heart. Dorian leaned forward on his stone, suddenly serious. Hawke took one look at him, then Solas, and decided to excuse herself to the pool.

“C’mon, Dhru, let’s go get busy,” Hawke said, pulling her up. She was reluctant to join as she wanted to hear what Dorian had to say. Outside of the steam, Vyr let her go with a sly grin and pointed subtly to a little hiding spot behind some large stalagmites just behind where Solas would be sitting. “Tell me all the juicy details later.” Hawke winked and sauntered off toward Varric who was sitting obliviously at the side of the pool. There was a shout that was immediately cut off by the sound of splashing water. Dhrui didn’t have to even look to know that Hawke had tackled him into it. She crouched and crept between the stalagmites where she had a perfect position to spy.

“—and honestly, I don’t even know if I want to win the bet anymore,” Dorian was saying, “You see, I have a very dear friend out there by the waterfall. I’m sure you have heard the small legends that have sprung up in her wake. Do you follow?” Solas had straightened on his own rock, back no longer even touching the stone of the cavern. “Yes, now, I’ve come to observe that she cares for you on a deeper level than I believe you’re capable of realising. I am also quite adept at recognising complete pricks. For her sake, I am trying to see the good in you. But as her friend, I am also looking out for her well being.” Dorian gestured between them. “If you hurt her, be assured that you and I will have real issues.” The fiery Altus reclined again and the steam obscured his face. There was a moment of silence that Dhrui quickly took as a cue to escape to the pool before she was discovered. Solas emerged from the steam looking completely composed, regal even, despite being half-clothed. His eyes swept the area until they landed on Maori. Dhrui followed his gaze to see her sitting cross-legged before Yin who was busy braiding her hair in a new style. She saw conflict on the apostate’s face and his body jerked as if to join them, but then he seemed to decide otherwise, walking to the waterfall where he disappeared beneath for a spell to wash off. When he re-emerged, he took his leave, gathering his shirt on the way out and throwing it over his shoulder. 

Not one to miss much, Maordrid noticed immediately. Her face cracked and real disappointment shone through as he left. Dhrui had half a mind to return to Dorian and give him a tongue lashing. Obviously Solas had reservations of his own on the matter and little—if any—support. Yin noticed her then and waved her over excitedly. She shook her head at him and rolled her eyes slowly in the direction Solas had gone. Yin blinked, following her gaze, then looked back at her and nodded. That was all the approval she needed before she ran herself under the waterfall quickly and gathered her belongings near the opening of the cave. So much for a fun little party.

Outside, there was no sign of Solas. She hurriedly returned to her tent for fresh clothes, setting her wet ones out to dry by the fire, then cast her gaze about for the runaway elf. At first she thought maybe he had left the keep entirely but then realised he wasn’t far off at all, merely leaning against one of the merlons just outside the light of the campfire and behind the circle of tents themselves. Dhrui walked over and joined him looking out at the darkened desert.

“I heard everything he said to you.” Might as well start with the truth. At her confession, she saw him bow his head out of the corner of her eye.

“I know,” he said. 

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t very tactful about it, but his heart is in the right place,” she said. “I didn’t come up here to defend him…or talk about that. That’s between you and her.” She felt him look at her.

“Thank you,” was all he said. 

“I actually wanted to suggest something,” she said, making her voice gentle. “She’s not one to ask for favours or anything from anyone, and you’ve known her longer than I have, so maybe you already know that. Point is, I’ve seen her staring pretty wistfully at Maryden’s lute when she plays in the tavern. She mentioned she played, but I’ve yet to see. With Satinalia coming up, I was thinking it would be a perfect gift for her.” Solas turned to her halfway, one hand resting on the stone as he peered at her curiously.

“It sounds like that was your plan. It is very thoughtful, I would not want to take that from you,” he said. Dhrui cocked her head, laughing quietly.

“Don’t worry, I have other ideas,” she said. “But even if you don’t return those…deeper feelings, I know you two are close. It would be a good gift.” Solas gave her a small smile.

“Yes, it would be,” he said, looking back out at the sandy wasteland. “She plays beautifully.” Dhrui smiled fondly at him.

“Solas?” He hummed in answer. “Is there anything you might like? Or want?” He seemed thrown off by the queries. His reactions to such questions were almost identical to Maori’s, as if neither were used to having friends or people that cared. It broke her heart, really.

“I…I’m not sure,” he said. She smiled and patted his arm. 

“Don’t worry, I think I have an idea for you.” Her ears perked at something on the wind and realised that the others were returning from the caverns. “One more thing…” He nodded, clearly picking up on the noises as well. “I hope you know I consider you a friend. And you’ll never not be. If you ever need someone to talk to…I’m here. I’m sorry for pissing you off when we first met.” With that, she scurried off, too embarrassed to wait for a response. He could figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly couldn't think of a better name for this chapter >:|
> 
>  
> 
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> 
> also...Adamant is like...6k+ words, what have I done


	58. The Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice.
> 
> But mostly that last part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see how many times we can fall off of figurative and literal precipices in the coming bits.

Maordrid sat at the top of a rock stack a day later, smoking her pipe in deep thought as she stared at the walls of Adamant just visible a league out. The quiver bearing Tahiel’s weapon lay beside her half-forgotten. She hadn’t told anyone what she planned to do—nor would she. It was another risk she had to take. Dhrui and Dorian had threatened that if she willingly walked into danger again, they would ‘treat her like the child she was’. She reminded them both that she was old enough to have witnessed the beginning of both their lineages, which then prompted several senility jokes.

She exhaled slowly, letting the silvery-blue smoke pour from her lips. 

Ah, yes. Yin had declared his core group for Adamant just before noon, so it came as no surprise that he wanted her at his side. He’d almost refused Dorian—a sweet thought to protect his lover—but the Altus had given him an earful about special treatment. However, he had not chosen Dhrui, ordering her instead to stay back with Varric, Blackwall, Cassandra, and Iron Bull. Dhrui had of course argued vehemently but it hadn’t been even closely as effective as Dorian’s outcry. He was staunch in protecting his sister. Maordrid hadn’t told him that she agreed with having her stay back, but a small part of her wished for the comfort that she had begun to draw from Dhrui’s presence. Nevertheless, with Dorian, Yin, Solas, Cole, Hawke, and Alistair, she knew they could take on the challenge in the Fade. She promised Dhrui it would be the last time she acted without her, but the younger woman was sceptical. In all fairness, she would be too in her position.

The sound of feet scrabbling against coarse stone drew her from her revelry. Maordrid clenched her pipe between her teeth and went to the edge to help Dhrui up, trying not to laugh at the woman’s exasperation. The rock column was at least ten meters up with some difficult foot holds.

“Aha! I thought I smelled home on the wind!” Dhrui exclaimed, pointing to the pipe in her mouth. “My father used to smoke.” Maordrid smiled as she inhaled and then blew out a stream into the arid late noon air. 

“My ritual before our fights,” she said, taking a sip from her flask. Dhrui watched her with amusement. 

“I thought it was a ritual you had with Blackwall, Dorian, Yin, and…Solas?” she asked. 

“I’ll have another drink with them before we march,” she said, then turned back to the outline of Adamant, rubbing her hands together. “We will be fighting demons and Grey Wardens in three hours. And in four we will have entered the Fade physically. Will you be all right with us gone?” Dhrui made a protesting noise.

“You’re going to be in the Fade where a demon has been trying to kill you for the last few months and you’re asking me if I’m going to be content as a halla on spring grass? Piss off.” Maordrid held out her pipe without looking and grinned when the girl snatched it away. “Stop trying to win me over with treats, it’s working.”

“I will give my pocket treats to Blackwall to keep you content. Or is it Hawke now, I can’t tell?” Dhrui smacked her on the arm, coughing after inhaling too sharply. 

“How did you know about that? Vyr swore she was the queen of stealth!” Dhrui blew her smoke out at Maordrid who barely reacted save for a slow blink of her eyes.

“Because Hawke tripped over my cot when she was slipping out to meet you.” Dhrui swore.

“I hope Blackwall didn’t hear,” she muttered. Maordrid quirked an eyebrow. 

“Who knows, he might be into that sort of thing,” Maori said in a wry tone. Dhrui scratched her head, looking uncomfortable. Maordrid had known about Blackwall’s attraction to Dhrui since arriving that night on the Exalted Plains. The elf had been carrying around his little nug carving ever since. There was something off about Blackwall, and of course she'd looked into the transcript in hopes of gleaning a little insight, but Blackwall's entries had lacked any personal references. She told herself that she was being overprotective of the girl she'd taken beneath her wing. But the spy in her was tempted to investigate his background anyway. She wouldn't be able to until they went back to Skyhold, unfortunately. Maordrid dug a twig into her pipe with a tad too much force, nearly flicking the resin into her own eye. _You can't know everything_ , she thought begrudgingly.

Someone shouted up at them from the ground. Dhrui poked her head over the edge. The others were gathered below just inside of a small canyon where they were setting up a temporary camp with supplies that they planned to leave behind for the return after the battle. Griffon Wing Keep was almost an entire day of travel on the other side of the canyon.

“Looks like it’s time,” she said. Maordrid joined her, waving down at Dorian squinting up at them beneath his hand. “Uh. I have no idea how I’m gonna get down. What was in your pipe? It seems… _much_ higher up than it was earlier.” Maori’s chuckle was cruel as she grabbed her quiver, sliding it over her torso and stepping up to the very edge. 

“I think I have heard a story like this—the Dalish princess, trapped at the top of a lonely tower, waiting for her Warden to rescue her. Or wait, is she looking to the skies for her valiant Hawke to swoop in—” Dhrui rolled her eyes and placed a hand in the centre of Maori’s chest, giving her a firm push over the edge. Maordrid laughed wildly, spinning in the air and shifting into a raven, gliding safely back to the ground beside Dorian whose face changed from horror to repulsion in a frame of a heartbeat. She stood beside him and looked back up at the tower where Dhrui was pacing about, cursing loudly in Antivan and bad elven.

“You two play some very stupid games,” he said, watching the Lavellan. “You’ll be the death of me yet.”

“I would rather not be,” she remarked, sighing. 

“How is she going to get down?” 

“She could step over the edge. Or, you know, stay up there forev—”

“ _Fasta vass,_ Maori, go get your apprentice or Yin is going to skin us all. I’ll keep a lookout.” Dorian cursed under his breath and trudged back down toward the canyon. “All clear!” he called back. Maordrid laughed and shifted into a griffon, arcing up and over the tower before hovering at Dhrui’s level. The elf climbed unsteadily onto her back, grumbling.

“I hate you so much.”

At the bottom, Dhrui tackled her into the sand once she was back in her elf form.

It was Dorian who finally tore them apart, although Maordrid’s face was entirely caked with sand as she had been laughing far too hard to defend herself as Dhrui exacted her revenge.

When they reached the others at the small creek, no one looked surprised.

“I’m sure you’ll terrify the demons back into the Fade with your new face, darling,” Vivienne drawled as Maori washed her face clean of sand.

“She’ll just trick them into following her up into high places and they’ll be too scared to climb down,” Dhrui said, trying very hard to keep a straight face as she filled her waterskin beside her friend. Vivienne rolled her eyes and walked off. Maordrid had been anticipating a second attack, so when it came she spun on the balls of her feet still in a crouch and used Dhrui’s momentum to toss her into the creek.

After that, even the most reserved of their group laughed.

  


\----------------------------------------------------

  


A few hours later, they joined with Commander Cullen and the Inquisition’s largest body of forces. Yin spoke briefly with Cullen about the overall plan, then came running down the bulbous stone cliffs to where Dorian, Maori, Solas, and Cole were waiting. Hawke had already joined the fray, being one of the first up the ladders on the walls. 

“The trebuchets are going to fire and then we’re marching in as soon as that gate opens,” Yin said once he reached them. He put his helm on just as there was a shout from above and they all looked up to see Cullen giving the signal. The siege weapons whirred and launched their contents in coordinated attacks. The flaming projectiles arced through the air, colliding with the old walls. Even from that distance they could see the devastation it wreaked on the Grey Wardens. “Let’s go! They’ve got the battering ram—we’re in behind them!” 

They all fell in with Yin as they charged down from their cover in the rocks, their group entirely shielded by the Inquisitor’s and Maori’s Aegis spells. Solas cast barriers on them as a precautionary measure as they reached the walls where rocks and arrows were hailing down. The battering ram in shape of a fist swung once, twice, and on the third time, the heavy gates buckled like foil at the bottom, big enough to let a swarm of Inquisition troops in. Yin led the way in, Maori joining him at the front with Cole to start the attack. 

There weren’t many Wardens in the courtyard that stood against their deadly group and when the last man fell, Cullen and Alistair came running in behind them wearing their helmets. A shot from a trebuchet screamed through the air above, blasting a chunk of wall down. A Warden from above screamed a retreat inward.

“That’s your way in, Inquisitor. Best make use of it,” Cullen said. “We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.” 

“We’ll be fine. Keep our men safe,” Yin said, already turning away.

“We’ll do what we have to, Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “Hawke has been up there with our soldiers assisting them until you arrive.” His urgent report was punctuated by a man falling to his death off the walls, pushed by a demon. “There’s too much resistance. Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold. If you can clear out the battlements, we’ll cover your advance.” Yin nodded his farewell to Cullen and Alistair joined him in the lead. Maori brought up the end to watch Solas and Dorian’s backs should they be attacked, with Cole watching all else. 

They ascended to the next courtyard and were immediately assaulted by demons and their paired Wardens. Maori summoned her sword and spun her staff above her head, letting a whip of lightning erupt from either end. The magic lashed out at the shades attempting to breach their defence, but they were not prepared for her sword. They had barely finished off the last demon before Yin was running off to the next area, obviously trying to find a way up onto the walls where the fight was the most intense. It was not to be just yet, as the only open entryway was a bridge that led to the main bailey. Inside was another courtyard where a few Wardens were squaring off against their own, protesting some ritual. Yin wasted no time dashing down the stairs as a fight with more shades erupted. Alistair was right next to him this time. Maori chose to hang back with their ranged, keeping her eye on Yin. He was trying to fight as _dirth’ena enasalin_. He had not told her of his decision and she knew it was because _he knew_ she would have advised him against it. His grip on the spirit sword was strong, but maintaining it took honing one’s willpower over more than just a few months. She searched for signs of flagging in case she needed to feed him her will or intervene.

“Brothers, can’t you see this is madness?” a young Warden screamed as their brethren engaged Yin and Alistair.

“It’s no use, their minds are not their own!” another cried. A spellbinder teleported to a corner of the courtyard where he aimed his attacks at the rebelling Wardens. Yin and the others had not yet seen him, but she had. The spellbinder locked eyes with her and quickly lay down a half-circle of icy glyphs before him, clearly not realising that she was a mage. Her lips twitched into a grin as she broke away to fight him. 

He fired a barrage of frostbolts at her that she danced her way through without even calling for her magic. Invisible fire mines erupted near her feet, nearly melting her boots.

“Clever,” she whispered, spinning her staff in her left hand as she flung her right out, sending a path of ice straight through his glyphs that she hopped onto, using its slickness to propel herself toward him. The attack triggered his traps, sending up a wall of ice that he cowered behind. Boosted by an inverted Mind Blast beneath her feet, Maordrid launched herself over the ice wall and onto the other side where the spellbinder was waiting with levitating ice spikes. He very nearly succeeded in his trap, but she shattered the ice with her sword. One spike cut through the only unarmoured spot on her arm in consequence of her miscalculation, but her sword corrected for it as it cleaved through a hole in his armour at his neck. He gurgled, dropping his spellbook and collapsing. Maori let out the breath she’d been holding and let her sword dissipate. 

Some kind of negotiation was happening on the other side of her icy prison, but then she heard her name called. The wall of ice was three times her height, but also a barrier just asking to be exploded. She scrawled a fire mine on the ice, then stepped back, calling her battle axe into being. Baring her teeth, she swung it with a roar and delighted in the way the ice exploded beneath spirit axe and fire. Dorian and Solas stood on the other side looking terrified of her.

“Save some for our actual enemies, would you?” Dorian said when he recovered. She just grinned.

“At least some of the Wardens still have their wits and reason,” Alistair said once they’d regrouped and headed out. “I think the access to the battlements is just up ahead. Let’s go.” So they did, running through two darkened areas before they finally found the stairs to the top. Yin fired a few different coloured balls of light in the air when they arrived, clearly some signal for Cullen. As they advanced down the walkway, a few Wardens at the end caught sight of them but were quickly vaporised by a hurling ball of stone. They continued on grimly in a block sort of formation, Maori and Cole at the back, Solas and Dorian in the middle, and Yin and Alistair pushing at the front. As they passed and cleaned house, ladders from the other side clanked into place and soldiers clambered up, eager to fight.

“I see Hawke!” Solas shouted over the din as they struggled to take down a particularly powerful Rage demon. “Past that tower!” Maori jumped up onto the walls to get a better look and quickly spotted the woman with her distinct casting. She was fighting what looked to be a Pride demon and doing quite well at avoiding its attacks, but hardly landing any of her own. The same could not be said for the other less experienced soldiers. They were scrambling to keep intact as Pride rained chaos upon them.

“Maori, Solas, go help Vyr!” Yin ordered, then shouted in pain as Rage raked a molten claw across his armour. Dorian swore in Tevene and began casting necromantic spells, reanimating three Grey Wardens.

Solas grabbed her hand and they went running to Hawke’s aid, ducking and dodging deadly missiles. Inside the tower, they found a few health and lyrium potions that they set out in plain sight for the Inquisitor and Dorian once they came through. Solas tossed her one of his lyrium vials that she downed with a grimace, feeling it turn her blood to fire. 

“Bloody hate lyrium,” she growled as they emerged through the tower and quickly scanned the battleground. 

“Can you replicate what you did with that Pride demon back at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” Solas asked. She gave him a look.

“Is that a challenge, Fadewalker?” He quirked a grin and then Fade stepped to engage a Despair giving Hawke trouble from the sides. She clicked her tongue as she propped her staff up against some crates so that she could summon her spear. 

“About time, you sexy elves!” Vyr called out as Maori joined the fight. Unfortunately, storm and winter was of hardly any use against Pride, which meant getting up close and personal with her spirit weapon. Vyr kept casting fire glyphs and trying to do _something_ with blood magic, but it wasn’t much hindering the demon. It only laughed at her mockingly.

“Shield me!” she shouted at Vyr, who promptly cast one over her. Maordrid charged in, whipping her spear into a position horizontal to her waist. Pride saw her immediately and lashed out with two whips of lightning, following it with another laugh as she rolled to dodge the blows. She felt the ground charging with deadly energy, but leaped up onto one of its arms before it could recover, running onto its shoulders where she spun the spear again and stabbed into the plates at its neck, trying to dislodge them. The demon roared in pain and reached backward to swat her away, but she pushed off of its head, backflipping out of the way. She tumbled sloppily to the stone, losing her spear in the process. 

“There’s a weak spot behind its horns!” Maori shouted over to Vyr as she rolled away from a swiping claw. As she took momentary cover behind a pile of rubble, her head swivelled back and forth looking for Solas. Her eyes latched onto him just as he took a blast of Despair’s ice to the chest. Somehow, he endured its attack and managed to stick his staff into the stream, unleashing a column of fire that evaporated the ice and took Despair in its own chest. The demon shrieked painfully as his fire engulfed it like dry straw. After it was gone, Solas doubled over, clutching his chest. He glanced up briefly, lips blue with cold as he tried to keep to his feet. His lips moved silently as he tried to say something, fear crossing his features. Magic sparked at his fingers and she realised _she_ was the one in danger as her cover suddenly exploded under the weight of the Pride demon. She lost a vambrace in its attack, but managed to escape surprisingly unscathed for her record.

“Sorry! It really seems to like you!” Vyr shouted as she shot a Stonefist at the back of its skull. Pride roared and swiped backward blindly—a lucky hit that knocked the Champion off her feet. Hawke skid some way on the stone on her back, groaning, but staying down. Maori gritted her teeth, summoning another spear, but then cried out in relief as a myriad of deadly magic flew through the air behind her at Pride, heralding the arrival of the others. Cole flashed through the air toward the demon, daggers bared. She saw Yin Fade step to Solas’ side, helping the elf to stand as he simultaneously bombarded Pride with a flurry of magic. Dorian appeared at her side with a rejuvenation potion, hair perfect despite everything.

“You are a beautiful sight, _lethallan_ ,” she said, gratefully accepting his offer. He tweaked his moustache and helped her to her feet.

“And you’re a beautiful little disaster,” he replied in kind, waving his staff. A purple aura sprung up its length and a screaming spell erupted from it, seeking out the demon. It sank into Pride’s armour like a second skin. “Now’s the time to finish it off!” 

As a whole, the five of them attacked as a single entity, overwhelming Pride. It stumbled back, no longer laughing. Maordrid took the opportunity to rush it head on, weapon in hand. She reeled her arms back and with all of her strength aided by magic, she thrust her spear up into its roaring maw. Its whole body convulsed and began to fall forward. Maordrid rolled backward into a crouch to avoid being crushed and saw Hawke standing in its stead, bladed end of her staff glowing red hot and smoking from where she had attacked it from behind. She rubbed the back of her head, staring at her in admiration.

“You’re wicked with that spear,” Hawke remarked. Yin and the others joined the Champion where Pride had fallen, but Maori went to Solas who was seated off to the side on a step, still recovering from the residual effects of Despair. He would be unable to cast any fire spells until it wore off. She knelt before him, taking his face into her hands.

“I’m fine,” he said, but he wasn’t shivering. She whispered a very gentle warming spell into him and watched as his blue-tinged lips slowly went back to normal.

“No, you are hypothermic. You need to rest for a second,” she said firmly, taking his hands in hers and repeating the same spell. He groaned in relief and shivered violently. “Where was your barrier?” He looked abashed.

“It was not Vyr’s shield that protected you,” he said to her surprise. 

“You hasty fool,” she said, but squeezed his shoulder. 

“I think I can stand now,” he said, pulling himself to his feet with use of his staff. She grimaced and yanked a potion from his belt, shoving it into his hands. “Ah. Yes. That would certainly help.” He drained the potion in one go with a gasp, then looked over at Yin who was discussing a new plan with Vyr who took off at a run to do whatever. Maordrid remained with Solas until she was sure he wasn’t about to keel over, then fell back with Cole in their previous formation as they moved on.

“The walls are cleared. Vyr is more of a beast in battle than I thought,” Yin explained when no enemies popped out within a few meters of walking. 

“Yes, coupled with Commander Cullen, he will hold a path open for us,” Alistair said when they’d taken some stairs farther into the keep. Through a steel door, they ended up on the other side of a scaffolding barrier in the main bailey but spent no time lingering, quickly pushing through yet another door. On the other side, a group of Inquisition soldiers were finishing off a couple of demons, much to their relief. Unsurprisingly, Hawke was with them already.

“Try to keep up, Quizzy, I’m on _fiyah_ ,” Vyr said as she downed a lyrium potion. 

“Hawke saved a lot of lives on the battlements, Inquisitor,” one of the soldiers said, gazing at the Champion with reverence. 

“Not all the Wardens have stood against us,” Alistair said. “Hopefully that means Clarel will listen to reason.” Yin nodded and walked up to the last gate where a few men stood guard. Maori could feel powerful magic on the other side of it. Her hand strayed to the quiver at her side, ensuring that Tahiel’s weapon was still within.

“Ser! Our forces are ready when you are,” another man reported to Yin. He nodded his assent and Hawke tossed potions to everyone as they accumulated by the door. On a count of three, the soldiers opened it and their party slipped through into one last vestibule before emerging into the ritual area. The largest gathering of Grey Wardens yet had assembled in a courtyard below the entryway. Above them was a sort of raised area where Maori saw two people standing, talking amongst themselves as they watched a circle of Wardens feeding magic into a green slash in the air. That was where they planned to bring Nightmare through.

“Clarel and Erimond,” Alistair hissed. “Be careful.” Yin nodded and motioned for everyone to split into two groups—Cole, Maori, and Solas went down the right stair and the others went left.

“Wardens, we are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect!” the Orlesian voice of Clarel spoke out. She clearly planned to give an inspirational speech to her people, but then the greasy snake called Livius interrupted her, looking impatient. At the bottom of the stairs, Solas held his arm out, barring Maori from going any farther. Cole slipped into the shadows effortlessly, awaiting instruction.

“This is madness,” Solas whispered as they watched an older man in well-cared for Warden regalia stepped up to Clarel. They exchanged words before the man offered up his throat. The three of them watched as their leader slit his throat for a lie.

“That’s our signal,” Maori whispered, pointing to Alistair across the way who was flashing his sword at them. They burst from cover, watching their surroundings for danger as Yin and Alistair confronted the Order. 

“Stop them! We must complete the ritual!” Erimond demanded, scurrying to the front of the dais. Yin held his hand up and walked closer to the ritual, unfazed by those that drew their weapons, ready to attack.

“Clarel, you can’t complete this ritual!” he shouted up to her, “Erimond is lying to you!” 

“Lying? Is that what you think? They’re fighting the Blight! Keeping the world safe from darkspawn—who wouldn’t want that?” Erimond said in a mocking tone. “And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate me for that if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty.” The man crossed his arms smugly, but Maori could see some damage had been done to Clarel’s faith as her face crumpled.

“We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them,” she said. Alistair stormed up beside Yin, face furious.

“And then _he_ binds your mages to Corypheus!” he shouted. Clarel gasped, stumbling back.

“Corypheus?” she repeated. “But he’s dead!” Maordrid had the urge to throw her spear at Erimond as he whispered more lies into the woman’s ear. She could barely make out what he was saying, but she knew what happened next. Clarel closed her eyes, a frown creasing her aged brow.

“Bring it through!” she ordered. The Wardens at the rift wasted no time and the air crackled with magic. An image of a ghastly demon refracted in its green depths. 

“Please, using blood magic like this isn’t worth what you think it is!” Hawke cried as the free Wardens began to advance. 

“I helped fight the Archdemon in Ferelden! Could you _consider_ listening to me?” Alistair tried fruitlessly. A piercing shriek escaped from the Fade, ricocheting eerily off the stone walls.

“Dammit, listen to these people!” Yin shouted, flinging his arm out. “Does their presence mean nothing? Their words? We have spared as many Wardens as we could! I don’t want to kill you, but you’re being used—many of you knew it and stopped fighting, I know there are some in here that agree.” 

“The mages who’ve done the ritual? They’re not right. They were my friends, but now they’re like puppets on a string!” Maori didn’t see who said it, but it was enough to spark disquiet amongst their ranks.

“You cannot let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!” Clarel said with reinforced vigour.

“He’s afraid? You truly are blind. You’re afraid you’ve ordered all your people to their deaths for nothing!” Vyr said.

“If this was a fight against future Blights, I would be at your side! But it’s a lie!” Alistair shouted and his voice nearly cracked with emotion. His words finally seemed to reach through, tearing down the last layer of uncertainty amongst the Grey Wardens. They all turned to look up at Clarel. 

“Clarel, we have come so far!” Erimond said, finally seeing that his operation was in danger. “You’re the only one who can do this!” Maori didn’t see her face when the Warden-Commander looked at the Tevinter, but she heard the accusation in her voice. However, it wasn’t strong enough for she spoke as if she meant to bargain with him. 

“Perhaps we can test the truth of these charges, to avoid more bloodshed.” 

“Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally!” Erimond growled, then began cracking the end of his staff on the stone by his feet. Each one shot a ripple of red magic across the stones. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!” Maordrid barely flinched as the dragon announced its arrival with a guttural cry. Its massive shadow eclipsed the courtyard entirely, and then suddenly a body slammed into her as a blast of fiery lyrium struck the ground where they’d been standing. Dorian helped her up from where she’d fallen.

“Don’t check out on me now, Maori. You know what happens next,” he whispered as his eyes followed the dragon that had perched itself on top of a tower. There was movement on the balcony where Clarel stood with Erimond and suddenly Corypheus’ dragon swung its great head to look there. A ball of lightning flew up and hit the dragon in the face, pissing it off.

“These Wardens aren’t bright,” she said as Erimond fled and Clarel ran after him. In the wake of the dragon’s arrival, another Pride demon had somehow stepped through the rift. But fortunately, the Wardens had turned to their side and were working to bring it down. 

“We have to get after her!” Yin shouted, beckoning to them. They all ran after their Inquisitor who chased the flicker of Clarel’s coattails around the corner. Shades oozed across their path, but they proved to hardly be an obstacle as they took turns hitting them with blows on their way through—each time the seventh blow came, the demons were finished. Maordrid felt like she knew the layout of the keep even though she had never set foot in it before. She had studied the map that had been drawn in Varric’s transcript many times. 

“That bloody thing is hunting us! We have to draw it away from our allies!” Alistair shouted ahead of her. 

“Working on it!” Yin said. “Cover!” They all barely managed to scamper into cover of a wall as the dragon landed on the side of the keep, claws scrabbling for purchase as it unleashed an uncontrolled blast of breath. Yin fired his own magic at it, hitting it square in its infected eye with a fireball. The creature howled and flew off, preparing to come back for more. 

They ran through a dangerous corridor, barely escaping up the stairs at the end of it when it returned. Maori had grabbed Cole and yanked him up the stairs just before the stream reached him. Not long after that, she saved Yin, and Vyr in turn saved them both when they thought they were in the clear. At last, they made it to the summit of Adamant where Clarel was facing off against Erimond who was out of path to run.

“You! You destroyed the Grey Wardens!” Clarel cried, her voice audible from there. Erimond skidded to the end of the bridge and attempted to form an offensive spell against her, but a perfectly aimed Stonefist to the gut knocked him flat. He laughed, struggling to sit up.

“You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch,” he croaked. As he spoke, Yin walked obliviously toward the end, followed closely by everyone else. Dorian and Maori lingered behind with trepidation.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Dorian asked her, his steps slowing. She didn’t answer, eyes staring ahead. Her heart was hammering, despite all that she had done to prepare herself. She managed a nod for him. “If I die—”

“You will not. On my life, I swear it, Dorian,” she said, looking at him. “Now duck.” They both crouched just as the dragon flew over and landed, snatching Clarel up in its jaws, then pushing off from the bridge. It flew around again only to land on another wall where it swung its head side to side before releasing the poor Warden. Her body flew like a ragdoll, landing just at the duo’s feet. The dragon shook the ground as it crashed down before them, snarling.

“ _Fenedhis!_ ” she uttered, staggering backward and gripping Dorian’s hand reflexively. The dragon’s eyes glinted like corrupted rubies as it prowled forward. Dorian’s hand clenched around hers. The dragon almost seemed to laugh as its great body coiled up, preparing to end them first, but suddenly there was a flash of light from Clarel beneath its belly and the dragon’s pounce was disrupted. 

“Move!” Dorian screamed, throwing his body once more into hers. The dragon went skidding past them and the bridge quaked beneath its weight, beginning to shatter and break as it neared the end of the walk. The thing scraped at the stones with its claws before finally falling into the abyss below. Yin was at the end where the creature had disappeared, scrambling away as the stones fell, trying to help Alistair who clung on for dear life. “ _Amatus!”_ Dorian forsook her, running toward his lover. Maori went to follow, knowing the inevitable was coming, but then Solas was at her side, trying to pull her to safety.

“Run!” he begged, but then the bridge gave out beneath them. She lost him as they fell into the gaping chasm below. A flash of green lit up the darkness like the opening of a great eye and they plummeted into the Abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said it was 6k+?  
> Well, I messed up. It's over 11K.  
> I have to split that up, which is why it's taking so long...plus I'm writing future stuff.  
> INTO THE FADE!


	59. Out of the Frying Pan, into the Fade

She curled into a ball instinctively as a sickly green landscape grew in size, revealing rocks and death below. She awaited the inevitable collision with her eyes closed…moments passed and she opened them again, confused. She was hovering inches above a stone column. Upon placing her feet back on solid ground, her brain tried to figure out where she was directionally until her eyes were drawn to a familiar silhouette in the air above her. The Black City.

There were numerous groans around her as her companions recovered. Hawke was on a rock pillar just across from her staggering about and below Yin was beginning to stir on the ground.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Alistair said from out of view. 

“We were falling…and now I’m not falling but I’m sideways, _oh_ balls, I’mgonnabesick—” Hawke said, then was promptly what she said she would be, her vomit thankfully flowing downward as it should. “Someone explain what’s going on?”

“This is the Fade,” she heard Solas say, and then he walked into view, appearing ahead of Yin. His gaze was riveted to the city in the distance. “The Inquisitor opened a rift…we came through and _survived_. I never thought I would ever find myself here physically.” He pointed at a sinister structure, really not that far from where they all stood. “And look, the Black City, almost close enough to touch.”

“Yes,” Yin said, sounding equally as distant. “Incredible.” There was startled noise from above Maori and she looked to see Cole stumbling around. The spirit ran past her, spinning in horrified circles. 

“Cole, how does it feel to be back home?” Solas asked, seemingly oblivious. Cole finally landed beside them, stammering.

“I—I can’t _be_ here! Not like this! Not like me!” he wailed, but Solas approached him calmly, putting his hands out to console him.

“It’s all right. We’ll make it right,” Solas said. Cole cast his gaze up to Maori, surprisingly. 

“Maori knows this place is wrong, she understands! I made myself forget when I made myself real. But I know it wasn’t like this!” he cried. Maordrid walked carefully down her column and spotted Dorian rounding a boulder on the ground proper. He reached up to her with both hands and helped her down while the others continued to talk amongst themselves. 

“This is much more disappointing than the first time I visited the Fade,” Dorian told her. “I can’t believe I agreed to come here, even after you described all the horrific details.” She didn’t answer. A seed of uncertainty had been planted in Adamant and had quickly taken root in her heart. Before she could move on, Dorian yanked her back, eyes fixed on the others. “There’s something you need to see.”

“What?” she whispered as he took her back the way he had just come. On the other side of the rock was a shadowed crevasse. He pointed into it, but it was unnecessary--her eyes found the problem.

The corpse of a thin, bald elf lay on her side at the bottom, right arm and leg trapped below. The woman wore badly damaged Elvhen armour. There were burns all over her body and face, but she recognised it immediately.

“You know her, don’t you? The armour stood out to me.” She nodded, feeling sick.

“That’s…that’s me,” she forced out.

“Well. If you were worried about someone recognising you in this timeline, I’d say you’ve nothing to worry about. What a sorry creature,” he remarked with a grim expression. “Do you remember what I said about said about the other version of yourself?” 

“How can she be here? If my body was to be found anywhere in the Fade, wouldn’t it be in the Fade at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” she asked. 

“You said this is a powerful demon—it was present at the Temple, feeding off all of that fear, no? What’s to say it didn’t drag your body over here _just_ to get into your head? To break you down?” They looked at each other, too many questions and feelings of uncertainty passing between them. 

“Real or not…we can’t let it in,” she said, but even she didn’t believe her own words. “If my world perished, then that is something I will have to live with.” She tried not to break when he squeezed her arm.

“Let’s catch up with the others,” Dorian said and they hurried away from the grim sight, finding that the others had moved more toward the centre of the first area and were clearly looking for them. 

“Maori, do you sense the same presence that has been in your dreams?” Solas asked when they joined the group. She needed only to look at him for him to derive her answer. 

“Great. So that thing that’s nearly killed my friend is…nearby,” Yin deadpanned. 

“Wait, so you knew about this?” Hawke asked her. 

“Yes, did I forget to mention I have foreseen all of this—demons and all? It must have slipped my mind, terribly sorry,” Maordrid deadpanned. Hawke threw her hands up in defence. Maordrid turned her attention to the others, “The thing from my dreams is entirely different than the demon that controls this area. It may not even interfere with any of you. Regardless, we mustn’t allow ourselves to be separated.” Alistair jumped down from his spot, rubbing his chin.

“The rift where the Wardens were summoning the demons wasn’t far from where we fell. Is it possible we could get out the same way?” he asked Solas and Yin. 

“We have to try. I have no desire to see what’s lurking in this part of the Fade,” Yin said. “Let’s go.” He started forward fearlessly—or at least made a good effort to appear so. Maordrid nudged Dorian, jerking her head toward Yin. 

“Go, I’ll be fine,” she whispered. Dorian nodded gratefully and jogged up to him. Yin’s shoulders lost some of their tension immediately, but hers tightened as what felt like infinite eyes bore down upon her. Her feet caught on the uneven stone ground and she came to a stop, breaths coming out too loud, echoing in her ears. It was all too familiar. 

“Walk with me.” She looked up to see that Solas had come back for her and was waiting. The others drew farther ahead. Carefully, she put one foot in front of the other, taking her gaze off him for a second to look down again. 

“It’s close, Solas,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

“How can you hope for success when you are so easily deceived? Your spirit will be dominated. ” Maordrid gasped and looked up, but Solas had vanished. _It’s already hunting me. It knows I’m here._ She swallowed her self-loathing and hurriedly caught up with the others already far ahead. Yin was just asking the real Solas what he thought of the Fade, completely unaware of her dallying.

“I would not have chosen this area, but…to be walking here physically?” he sighed, sounding exhilarated. Ignoring the immediate danger, she was too. It was the closest thing to home as she had been in a long time, twisted as this place was.

“Well, anything else of note?” Yin asked nervously.

“The Fade is shaped by intent and emotion. Remain focused, and it will lead you where you wish to go,” he said, voice ringing out confidently. “The demon that controls this area is extremely powerful. Some variety of fear, I would guess. I suggest you remain wary of its manipulations and prepare for what is certain to be a fascinating experience.”

“He sounds like a fucking tour guide,” Hawke sputtered beside Maori before trudging to the front with Alistair and Yin. Cole took her place, his shoulder nearly brushing hers as they walked.

“You feel it more than them, visceral, vying for control,” he whispered, voice quavering with his own fear.

“Yes. I am afraid. But my desire to kill it is stronger,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed ahead of them. “Stay with them and they will get you out. Do not worry about me anymore, Cole.” Compassion pulled at the end of his sleeve in distress, but kept walking with her. They didn’t immediately move on, as Yin wandered off the raised path of stone to investigate a strange worn statue, though he came to an abrupt stop as he saw something in the water at the foot of it. When they all gathered to see what he was looking at, she saw words though she had no time to read them as Yin approached another strange scene of a spirit seated at a table. He seemed to hear something that no one else did, breaking away from the group clearly searching for something. He came back seconds later with a candle that he placed carefully before the translucent being. It vanished with a _pop_. 

“Dreamers,” she realised aloud. 

“We should help them if we encounter any others,” he said. The others didn’t look so certain, but they didn’t voice their dissent. Yin walked on. He was acting strangely, as if drawn to points in the Fade by an invisible string. Dorian looked the most worried of them all, keeping close on Yin’s heels as he went. Around corner of some jagged rocks, they encountered a small group of hostile wraiths. Yin didn’t even look at them, eyes on a shimmering object just beyond their enemies. Solas was quick to react, shielding him as the others jumped into action, dispatching the denizens of the Fade. Maordrid realised what had drawn his gaze—it was a shattered Eluvian. His hand was pressed to its surface and his head was bowed as if he were listening to something.

“Inquisitor?” Alistair asked uneasily, but then Yin snapped out of his strange trance immediately. 

“It was singing and now he’s stronger,” Cole said.

“That isn’t ominous at all,” Vyr said, looking at the elf as if he’d grown another appendage.

“I remember Novferen had a story about one of those mirrors. It didn’t have a happy ending,” Alistair said.

“Stop…stop _touching_ foreboding objects! Remember what happened last time?” Dorian admonished. Yin ignored them all and went back the way they’d come. Dorian looked helplessly at her, waiting for the others to go on some before attempting to speak. “Is there anything here that will hurt him? Or any of us?” 

“Just the demons, as far as I know,” she said. “But…be wary. I think my presence may have altered something.” 

“Yes, that’s exactly what concerns me,” he muttered. “Justinia is next, correct?” She nodded, following him between the stones. The others were already nearing the top of a weathered walkway. Yin’s entire body stuttered to a stop, clearly spotting the spirit awaiting them. She stopped beside Solas as Yin and Alistair approached cautiously.

“What…? That can’t be,” Alistair said in a hushed voice. Justinia merely regarded them as if it were the most normal thing in the world for her to be there.

“I greet you, Warden,” she said, face too serene. “And you, Champion.” 

“Divine Justinia?” Yin finally said, drawing a smile from the impostor. Maordrid must have been projecting her emotions too strongly, as the Divine’s gaze flicked to her momentarily, then back to the Inquisitor. “I saw you…I…this isn’t right. You aren’t her.”

“No, it isn’t,” Alistair agreed. “Things in the Fade have a tendency to show up like people you know. Demons, mostly.” He spoke with the conviction only experience could provide...but wasn't entirely right. She almost argued against him, but Justinia smiled secretively and spoke before her.

“You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves,” she said. “In truth, proving my existence would require time that we do not have.” 

“ _Surely_ you can understand our concerns and explain. I’d hate to have to add your name to my list of dead reputable icons,” Hawke interjected, leaning into her staff.

“I am here to help you,” Justinia insisted, but Hawke didn’t look convinced. The Divine turned her attention to Yin, recognising the futility of arguing with her. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.” Yin shook his head, a look of disappointment on his face as he addressed her.

“You’re right, I don’t. But you also shouldn’t know that I’d been made Inquisitor,” he said.

“I know because I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus,” she said wearily, “It is the nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work.” She looked straight at Alistair who scowled at her.

“I’d like to have a few words with this nightmare about that,” he said, hand resting on his sword. Justinia’s pale eyes twinkled, pausing on the weapon at his waist.

“You will have your chance, brave Warden,” she said, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “This place of darkness is its lair.” Yin cursed.

“Corypheus seems to have a lot of demons at his disposal,” he said, a question Maordrid had as well. _If Corypheus controls it, then what other_ thing _is lurking in its domain, waiting?_ “How does he command so many?”

“I know not how he commands his army of demons. His power may come from the Blight itself but the Nightmare serves willingly. For Corypheus has brought much terror to this world. He was one of the Magisters who unleashed the first Blight upon the world, was he not? Every child’s cry as the archdemon circles; every dwarf’s whimper in the Deep Roads—the Nightmare has fed well.”

“This is the same demon Erimond was trying to bring through…” Yin said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“…you’re telling me it’s nearby.”

“Yes.” Yin looked behind him at them all, then back at Justinia.

“Ah. _Hijo de puta_ ,” he muttered, giving voice to all their thoughts.

“When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it.” She swept a wrinkled hand out at the path ahead and they watched as a handful of green wraiths with shifting faces flashed into existence. “These are your memories, Inquisitor.” The creatures didn’t wait for her to finish to begin attacking them. Maori threw up an ice wall formed of the puddle waters as she attacked the nearest one, blocking a fireball one cast at her. Fighting erupted in the small area across the group. Another fireball melted her wall, but she was waiting on the other side with her spirit blade, deflecting the spell back at the creature. It wailed hollowly when one of its arms were blown off, then its other as she closed the distance, bringing her sword down. With an upward slice, its head came off and the green aether shrank in on itself, forming a small golden orb. The others quickly concluded their own battles, and when the last golden orb formed, they all went flying toward Yin who stumbled back clutching his head. He wasn’t the only one affected—the memory shoved its way even into her head. The real Justinia appeared before her eyes in some kind of chamber suspended by blood magic being cast by Grey Wardens. Corypheus’ voice rang in her ears, then there were the Divine’s desperate pleas that fell on deaf ears. Maordrid reflexively reached out for the green orb when it appeared before her, then realised her foolishness. The orb fell into her palm and her nerves erupted with pain—Yin’s pain. Corypheus lunged for her with a bellow of denial, and then the orb exploded, forcing her out of the memory. She gasped, vaguely aware that everyone else was in varying states of pain. 

“So that mark on your hand wasn’t sent by Andraste,” Alistair said, hands braced on his thighs. “It came from that orb Corypheus was using.” _Well done, Warden,_ she thought irritably, ignoring what Justinia had to say about what Corypheus had intended to do. Her eyes were on Solas. His face was stricken as he gazed at Yin—the innocent in all of this. Yet, it was Yin who tried to take the blame anyhow, saying it was _his_ fault, he failed to save the Divine and that he could have used the orb to kill Corypheus then. She saw Solas’ jaw twitch as if he wanted to tell him it wasn’t, not really, but the Wolf kept his secrets behind his teeth.

The others decided to press on, given a new objective that entailed finding all of Yin’s memories in order to escape. Of Justinia, there was no sign. They walked on warily, but she noticed Alistair staring at Hawke funny.

“What’s wrong, Hawke?” he asked. 

“Those were Grey Wardens holding the Divine in that vision,” she said with a sneer. “Their actions led to her death.”

“I assumed Corypheus took their minds. You have seen it yourself,” he said, clearly not wanting her to turn on him. But it was too late. Everyone in there had likely lost all trust in the Greys by now. 

“Do you think that was really Justinia?” Yin asked, changing the subject.

“She had a point,” Maordrid spoke up, “We survived the journey here—why wouldn’t she?”

“It could be a spirit that identifies strongly with Justinia,” Solas added, nodding to her. “And if it believes that it is her, then how can we say it is not?” Alistair turned around, walking backward as he spoke to address them all, “Whatever she is, she seems to want to help. I’m pressed to believe she does after she gave the Inquisitor his memories back.”

“What about the Nightmare?” Yin asked. “It’s still out there, but I sense something else. Maori, are you sure it wouldn’t try messing with any of us?”

“Like the Divine said, the _Nightmare_ has fed off fears for a long time. Whatever has been present in my dreams could be colluding with it. I cannot be sure,” she said. “If it is anything like the creature I have encountered, things will only get worse. Be wary and keep your weapons up.” She wished she was lying. 

Yin led them from the area down steps that were wet with blood in places, then up another staircase. Maordrid faltered at the middle of it when a flicker of movement at the top caught her eye. But as she tried to focus, something about it made her eyes slide off of it like water on oiled canvas.

At the top, they emerged onto a wide ledge overlooking a tilted monument in the shape of a fist protruding from dark mists, obscuring any ground below. A Claw of Dumat. 

“Ah, we have a visitor,” a deep, imperative voice rang out through the air. Yin’s shoulders hunched as he recognised the voice, but kept pressing the advance down some stairs as if hoping to find the creature waiting below. “Some foolish little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten.” Yin finally stopped, casting his green eyes about the area in defiance as he listened. “You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is _me._ ” Something shifted in the sea-green fog ahead. The others wisely readied their weapons. “But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.” Maordrid froze in horror as a group of sentinels charged out of the gloom. At the head was Elgalas, glaring up at her with hatred. Inaean stood right beside her.

Before she could even say anything, her companions unleashed their fury. Her hesitation nearly got her run through by one of the elves wielding a curved single-edged blade. She swept the attack aside with her staff, sending a shower of sparks cascading down her armour. She kicked the man in the stomach, sending him rolling down the stairs where Alistair impaled him with his sword. When she looked around for Elgalas, she saw Hawke sweep her head clean off her shoulders with a swing of her sickle-bladed staff. Inaean dodged spells aimed at her by Dorian, coming straight for her. Maordrid backed up, shaking her head. _No, not her, please._ Heart wrenching, she cast a stasis field, watching as Inaean slowed to a stop mere feet from her face, blue magic spitting angrily between her fingers. 

Cole cut her down right before her eyes.

“It wasn’t her,” he said as she released the stasis out of shock. Inaean’s corpse splashed into the water. “She is alive, free of fetters in the other world.” Maordrid nodded too many times, tearing her gaze away to look at Cole. His ghostly lips offered her a lopsided smile.

“Thank you,” she said. Around them, the fight had ended nearly quick as it had started. Maordrid walked up to Elgalas’ corpse next, feeling queasy. Her head stared up at her, black eyes still shining with hatred even in death. 

She turned, pressing her hand against her mouth in an attempt to ride out the nausea. Yin was the only other one who didn’t look so good. He hadn’t moved from one of the bodies since the end of the fight, eyes wide. Dorian pulled at him, whispering. 

“You’re right,” Yin replied. “He…he isn’t alive anyway.”

“I was expecting far worse,” Hawke said from ahead. Maordrid tried not to show her repulsion, sniffing and walking away from the bodies. 

“These are but minor servants of the Nightmare,” Solas said, then turned and saw her face. His lips and eyebrows twitched down in an expression of regret.

“Right. _Minor_ ,” she said, flicking water onto the edges of his robe that had caught fire. She wondered what he was seeing that had caused him to botch a spell like that.

“Pity. I want to see what it’s got,” Vyr mused. Maori almost told her to shut up, but held her tongue, moving on with the rest of the group up and out of the misty bowl. The path led them down another set of roughly hewn stairs, flanked high by basalt pillars. Her eyes slid along the stone until she saw the unforgettable glow of red lyrium growing in various places. She stalled yet again when they passed yet another broken Eluvian. Fragments of its mirror still stuck to its surface. A shadow moved through them. 

She hadn’t realised how close she’d gotten until a wide, strong hand closed gently around her fingers that had been outstretched to touch it. 

“Come on,” Yin said, eyes trained on the reflective parts, releasing her hand. “This one doesn’t feel right.” She nodded curtly and followed him to the last set of stairs where the others were waiting, trying to get a good look at their surroundings from that height.

They got about halfway down when they were attacked again, this time by two halla-sized varterrals. She hadn’t seen ones like those since the time her and a team of sentinels had been swarmed by them in a trap set by a priest of Dirthamen. She didn’t even have a chance to summon a spell, as Hawke took both creatures out on her own. 

“What the fuck were those?” Vyr asked, spinning to look accusingly at them, as though it were their fault. 

“Darkspawn?” Alistair offered unhelpfully. 

“Wait, you saw darkspawn?” Dorian interjected. “I would have rather seen those than what I did.”

“The fears are getting stronger. You must not give the demon what it wants,” Solas said. 

“Easy for you to say,” Yin muttered. “Let’s go.” More Claws of Dumat protruded along their path and each one had growths of red lyrium sprouting to their tops. They were given a large berth, but the Nightmare had long predicted their fears and had placed two massive heads of it as tall as the Claws on either side of their path. They simply fell in single file line to avoid coming close to the whispering crystal, climbing up the stairs into the next area. They were all startled near out of their skins when the demon’s voice shattered the silence like glass.

“Perhaps _I_ should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition,” it said with a mocking laugh. “Ah, Dorian…it is Dorian, isn’t it? For a moment I mistook you for your father.” 

“Rather uncalled for,” Dorian replied smoothly as they spread out around another Eluvian. This one’s surface was only half-broken. Maordrid stopped in her footsteps, heart pounding as she finally saw what was lurking in its shadows. A woman—no, _she—_ emerged from the depths, crawling on her knees until she reached the glass, pressing her hands against it. Maordrid bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to continuing looking. Blood covered her reflection from head to toe and gleaming in her skin were shimmering lines of red _vallaslin_. Her reflection banged on the glass, screaming silently. Her blood roared in her ears, drowning out all else.

“ _This is what you must become,_ ” a voice whispered through the turbulence. A violent surge of anger suddenly possessed her to take up a slick stone and hurl it at its surface. Her lips twisted in an ugly grin when it shattered. 

“I was about to do that myself,” Yin said, his face harrowed as he looked at the shards. She gripped her staff tightly and followed him away. She was beginning to understand how Hawke felt. 

After that display, she had a feeling she’d drawn the demon’s attention. 

She knew it when she strayed away again after a strange flashing light hitting the stone embankment in the next area. Her mind screamed at her to go back, but she had to know. In a corner tucked out of sight through a forest of Tevinter statues, she came upon an iridescent crystal that was the source of the flickering. She immediately recognised it as the artificial focus that Solas of her original timeline had used to bring down the Veil. Her hand flew to her chest, realising it was yet again mimicking the beat of her heart. She heard laughter behind her. As she spun expecting a blow, a shadowy figured merely passed through her body and merged with the crystal. Too late she was to react and the crystal exploded, sending shards flying everywhere. She yelped as glass-sharp shards cut at her face through her helm. She fled the area, removing it from her head to shake out the splinters. It was Yin and Solas that came to her cry of distress this time. Solas opened his mouth to say something, but his face went still as the demon spoke to him.

“ _Dirth ma, Harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_ His eyes roved the sky above, hands clenching his staff.

“ _Banal nadas,_ ” he replied stiffly, then looked at her. She avoided looking at him, accepting the small health potion and dirty kerchief Yin offered her.

“Stick together,” Yin said. The stress was clear on his face when he turned and walked away. She glanced at Solas as she wiped the rest of the blood from her face, touching his hand as she passed. He gave her a tight smile and fell in behind her wordlessly.

The demon seemed to be enjoying itself, taunting them where it knew they could not bite back. It only got worse the farther they travelled and she realised that perhaps its prying into their minds was _its_ reaction to the fear that they might escape its lair. She swore she heard its laughter at her thoughts.

It picked at Hawke next with its invisible talons while they were killing a group of Rage and Despair.

“Do you think you mattered, Vyr? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. How could you expect to strike down a god?” Ahead, Hawke was shaking her head and laughing as she cast down a Despair. “The last of your friends are going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”

“Everyone dies, maggot,” she said, not sounding at all like she cared. She took up the front, holding her head high as she led them into a strange passage. It had the trappings of an old Elvhen temple, one she barely recognised as Dirthamen’s. A large, macabre statue of the Evanuris knelt upon the high wall to the right. Hexagonal pillars of red lyrium pierced the golden tiles scattered along their path, appearing in pairs that functioned as frames for Eluvians of varying sizes. 

“ _Naèv…! Naèv, wait!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's next?!!!  
>  **> :D**  
> 


	60. Bringer of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say, thank you all for your kind comments. <3  
> Here's a long chapter because I want you to be happy and suffer like me.  
> (I also apologise for any mistakes, this was a huge thing to edit as it stands)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the Fade mission had so much more potential to be harrowing. So, uh, I'm taking some liberties here. :>

Maordrid didn’t stop walking at the old name. She kept her eyes on Solas’ back just ahead of her. 

“ _Naèv, please!”_ She let out a hiss of surprise when thin, bony fingers dug into her arms, forcing her eyes away from him. 

“Mira!” She wrenched herself away from the elf that had sprung out from some hiding place. 

“ _Shhh,_ ” Miradal begged, holding a shaking finger to cracked, bleeding lips, looking over her shoulder at the group drawing farther and farther away. “You have to run, get out of here—away from him!” Maori tried to step around her friend, but Miradal blocked her way. 

“You aren’t real. Mira does not know that name,” she hissed, flicking her sword up beneath the woman’s chin. Her resolve faltered when Miradal failed to change into a demon. They always attacked when threatened. “How…?”

“Run!” Miradal cried in a pitched whisper, and then she took off back the way they had come. Maordrid stared after the elf until a strong magical presence physically rippled the Fade. Its influence was so strong that it pulled her around almost like a compulsion. Facing forward, her mind tried to make sense of what her tired eyes were seeing. One of the Eluvians had activated, its surface glowing as someone emerged from the other side. A foot clad in golden armour broke its surface, followed by a golden greave, then the rest of the armoured leg and body that it belonged to. Her blood chilled to ice. Solas stepped through, eyes streaming a crimson essence of the godlike power that he possessed. The lyrium seemed to glow brighter around him, wreathing him in a corona of corrupted red.

“I’ve found you at last,” Fen’harel said, a chorus of whispers echoing after every word. “Traversing time is not enough to keep you safe from me.” She retreated, eyes wide.

“Wh-hat is this?” she whispered, mouth dry as a salt bed. Solas placed one foot slowly in front of the other, eyes still glowing.

“Do you know what you have done, Yrja?” he asked, bringing a gauntleted hand around from behind his back, lifting it to the skies. “Do you think yourself clever? Safe with your stolen knowledge? Did you believe you were exempt from the consequences of tampering with such magic?” The shadow of a dragon passed across the temple floor. “Reap what you have sown.” She cast a desperate look around for an escape, help, _anything._

She was thrown off her feet when the shadow from above came crashing down between her and Solas. The blackness boiled, tendrils of darkness twisting and lashing out across the ground toward her as she scrambled backward. An image of herself coalesced into existence. She looked as she had before the Rebellion, scalp and brows barren of hair. The woman’s eyes glowed crimson and gold, and from her mouth bled an auric smoke. She reeked of the madness that had taken Andruil.

“You can hide behind a thousand names, but I know your heart,” her other self said in a polyphonic voice. “ _You lie to yourself! Naèv Enso, the circle, the snake that bites its own tail—you will die to your own venom!”_

Miradal’s voice screamed in her head again, _RUN!_

Maordrid heeded her words this time, stumbling to her feet and running. Over her shoulder, she witnessed Fen’harel slit her other self’s throat, then gave chase. His eyes flashed brightly and a geyser of red lyrium erupted through the ground. She screamed, tripping on the stairs and throwing up a useless barrier.

But then it stopped as suddenly as it had started. Maordrid looked past her upraised hands to see that her Solas had interrupted his casting with a wall of ice. And it wasn’t just him—the others had returned as well, attacking him mercilessly. Alistair and Cole couldn’t seem to get close, as Fen’harel had surrounded himself in a solid Aegis of his own. Maordrid snarled and bolted forward, readying her staff as she locked eyes with the enemy Solas. The barrier opened just a sliver wide enough to let her through, as if wanting to meet only her challenge. She brought her staff down on him with a fierce cry, but he met her blow with a solid length of refined red lyrium.

“Don’t do this. They need us!” she cried. His eyes didn’t change, still glowing with the red of Fen’harel’s wrath. Smoky shadows rose from his skin, turning into tendrils that crawled up his arms toward her. “Do you think I fear you? Hate me if you must, but I will not give up on you or this world.” She was distantly aware of the others shouting her name and increasing the strength of their spells. The dull metallic thudding as projectiles wore at the Aegis. Some more powerful ones managed to pass through it, but unravelled harmlessly before even reaching Fen’harel. The shadows reached her hands and a black terror chased the blood out of her fingers. It would spread and take her mind, leaving her at his mercy. _No._ She gritted her teeth and put all of her strength behind pushing him, trying to throw him off just enough that his barrier might slip. Then, the impossible happened. The shadows retreated and the power faded from his eyes. He looked at her from between the shafts of their staves, those blue-grey eyes wide with raw fear.

“ _Help me,_ ” he begged. _“Please!”_ Maordrid faltered, her grip slipping on her staff. _Solas?_ She knew she’d made a mistake as soon as a sickening grin twisted his lips and he used her moment of hesitation to shove her back. Maordrid tripped, arms flailing uselessly as he spun his lyrium staff, preparing it for a finishing blow. 

“DO IT THEN! COWARD!” she screamed at him through the clamouring noise of magic, but her voice was lost when a shockwave exploded outward from him that also threw the others off their feet. His staff halted just before her throat and his mouth fell open in disbelief. Blood poured from it as he looked down at her where she had fallen. 

“ _You…will see,_ ” he choked in elven. He gasped as the blade in his chest twisted viciously, blood-slicked hands scrabbling at it. Fen’harel slid from the end of the blade, collapsing at last. Her Solas stood in his place, panting heavily. He dropped his staff and went to his knees, staring at her with wide eyes. There was nothing but relief in them.

“ _Sila na enasalin, shielan? Is druemah es’var alas’en—elithas esaya? Dina, ane’din telam’el ish’ala esayem bana’vara i’ve,”_ the demon’s voice called out to her. 

“ _Ma sila ma eolasa ara’nas, ahnsul ma av’ahn?”_ she replied more calmly than she felt, but it didn’t respond. It was then that she was finally joined by the others, all of whom were looking between her and the corpses around them.

“I can’t tell if that was the Nightmare…or the other thing,” Yin said. “But we didn’t kill it. I can still feel something.” She glared at the tiles, disappointed in herself…and scared of what she saw. Some doubt drained from her when Solas pulled her into an embrace that she returned tightly, mentally swearing death to the demon tormenting them all. _I will not let that happen to you, Solas._

“I saw her going up against some kind of shadowy mage figure, judging by the staff it held,” Dorian said when they parted. “It vaguely looked like Corypheus, now that I think about it. Its power seemed to warp the area until you faced it alone. None of us could get through.” 

“And here I saw Novferen as a…as a shriek with magic,” Alistair said, staring down at the corpses. “How come it attacked you alone and not all of us as a whole?” 

“It is possible it is attempting to pick us off, one by one,” Solas said, placing his hand protectively on her back. “It was Cole who realised you were missing from the group.” Maordrid shook her head angrily, an overwhelming sense of shame weighing her shoulders down.

“I let it in,” she said hatefully. “It will not happen again.”

“That was brave, charging your fear head-on. It’ll probably think twice before picking on you again,” Yin said with a reassuring smile. “I’m just glad we weren’t too late.” Maordrid refused to look at the bodies to see if they had changed. Demons or not, their words had resonated through her soul. She wanted to know what Solas had seen. As far as what the demon said…anything could be derived from its meaning. _It wants you to doubt yourself._ “Let’s get out of this area and take a quick breather if we can,” Yin said. The others agreed happily and hurried hastily through the false temple. Solas’ hand slipped to the small of her back, guiding her before him as the others got ahead. When they finally left her fears behind, everyone gathered closely to take drinks from lyrium and health potions. When they were rejuvenated, Yin took the lead. 

She wasn’t the only one to sigh in relief when the white and red livery of Justinia came into view in the next area. The Divine then told them what they had already begun to suspect—the Nightmare was closer and it knew that they were seeking to escape, so it was gathering its strength for a final attack. She revealed the final set of memories Yin needed to collect and the following battle was taken by him, Hawke, Dorian, and Cole while the others hung back, reserving their strength. It would be like that from then on so long as the fights were manageable, as each of them was beginning to flag. Maordrid leaned against a stone column as Yin collected the last orb, bracing for the vision that invaded their minds. It wasn’t as violent as the last one where she’d been forced to see through Yin’s eyes. This time, she floated disembodied at a distance, watching as Yin and Justinia fled from demons up a nearly vertical incline. 

“This is the Breach back in Haven. That’s how we…how _I_ escaped,” Yin’s voice echoed through the vision. They watched Justinia wait for Yin at the top, reaching out to help him. It proved to be her downfall, saving his life instead of running through the rift just beyond.

The memory stopped seconds later.

“It was you,” Yin said, walking up to the old woman. “They thought it was Andraste sending me from the Fade, but it was the Divine behind me. And then you…she died.” A shared silence of sorrow passed between the elf and the image of Justinia.

“Yes,” the spirit said. 

“So, it’s not the Divine after all,” Alistair said, frowning. 

“I think we all knew that, barkspawn,” Hawke quipped.

“I am sorry if I disappoint you,” Justinia said as her eyes began to glow gold. Her and Solas were the only ones that didn’t step back as the spirit revealed its true form to them. 

“You’re a memory of her, then? A reflection?” Yin asked when the spirit didn’t leave, but hovered some way above them all. 

“If that is the story you wish to tell, it isn’t a bad one,” the spirit said with amusement. Hawke turned then to Alistair who wasn’t looking at her.

“The most important part is that we know now that it was the Grey Wardens responsible for her death,” Vyr said. 

“What? Again? It wasn’t their fault!” he protested tiredly. “We can debate the depressing details when we get back to Adamant.” The Champion took two steps and got in his face, jabbing a finger into his mail.

“Yes, where the Inquisition is fighting off an army of demons. I wonder how those got out? Oh wait, the Wardens’ fault again!” Alistair stood his ground, glaring down at her.

“So what-what’re you saying? That terrible actions are only justified when they’re your terrible actions? You tore Kirkwall apart! You let your murdering friend go free! _You_ started the mage rebellion!” Hawke shied back as if struck.

“It was to protect innocent mages!” she shouted, then spun on her heel, stalking away from him. “You know what? Forget it. You know the Wardens fucked up, I don’t need to keep repeating myself. They need to be checked.” 

“Agreed,” Solas drawled. “The Wardens may once have served a greater good, but they are far too dangerous now.” Maordrid decided to keep her mouth shut for once, knowing her opinion might do more harm than good.

“The blood sings softly, it never stops and then it’s all they hear. We can’t let them hurt more people,” Cole said. Dorian looked over at her as if hoping to derive answers just from her face. She didn’t know how he originally stood on the subject, but she was glad that he chose to hold his silence as well. He just crossed his arms and shook his head. 

“Just stop, all of you. We can wait to shout at each other until we’re out of here,” Yin said, and was promptly backed up by the sound of more demons running toward them.

“The Nightmare has found us!” the spirit cried, then fled. 

“All together!” Alistair ordered, with Hawke voicing her sudden support right behind him. They all fell in for yet another wave of foes, meeting the charge with fire, ice, storm, and steel. Maordrid noticed that these ones were more unstable in their forms. She saw one demon change from a darkspawn, to a corpse, then a spider before it was finally destroyed. It was the same all around them until they all lay dead. The remains simply melted into puddles afterward. 

“We must follow the spirit, it has guided us this far. She is the key to escaping from the Fade,” Solas said to them as Yin took the path forward. There was more swampy water waiting for them just beyond. Statues that seemed patchworked from Tevinter, Elvhen, and even Avvar mythologies appeared through the gloom, certain ones bearing torches that they realised were pointing to the path they sought. 

Around the next bend in the path, there was a shriek and a blur of sewage-coloured skin dashed across the path toward Alistair. The man yelped in surprise as the terror demon threw him into the water like a ragdoll. Maordrid was first to his aid, willing her body across the space. She threw herself over the demon’s back while simultaneously casting a barrier over Alistair as the demon clawed at him. Terror roared with fury as she jabbed her blade into its leg, severing it from the thigh down. As it fell unbalanced, Alistair thrust his blade upward into the demon’s chest. She lopped off its head.

“Did the King’s bastard think he could prove himself?” Nightmare rambled while she helped him to his feet. “It’s far too late for that. Your whole life, you’ve left everything to more capable hands. The archdemon, the throne of Ferelden. Even now, your beloved Hero searches alone.” Like Hawke, Alistair was not perturbed. “Do you know that she chose to keep you off the throne because _she_ could not take it herself? She keeps you wrapped around her finger even now, a lovesick fool.”

“Is that all it’s got? I’ve heard worse than that from Morrigan and Nov,” he muttered. 

“ _Felasil,_ ” she said after he’d moved on. In due time, they came to a warded area where the Nightmare canted for once about itself and how powerful it was, sending smaller fears in the form of spiders at them. Surprisingly, it was the spirit mimicking Justinia that replied to it, her soft, lilting voice a stark contrast against its own. When the demons were clear, the Divine dispelled the ward for them. On the other side was the path, but it forked—the left side up a hill and the right zig-zagged down into some more water. 

The ground shook as they were deciding which way to take, drawing their attention up and to the left. There seemed to be a massive Pride demon lurking that way.

“Yeah, fuck that,” Yin said, immediately taking the right. No one brooked argument with him, even when the next enemy was yet another terror that materialised from the air, raking a claw down Solas’ back as it went. He shouted in pain, throwing up a hasty barrier and retreating as Hawke and Cole engaged it. Maori ducked under Solas’ arm, helping him to safety behind some rocks where she gave him a health potion. 

“We are running out of these,” he said, only taking a sip and trying to return it to her hands. She refused him, looking at the jagged lacerations in the middle of his back where his armour did not reach.

“And we need our strength and wits about us to avoid getting hurt in the first place. Drink up,” she said. He licked his lips, eyes flicking along her face before he tilted his head back and drained the vial. She offered him her hand, lifting him up and running with him after the others who were farther ahead than they should have been.

“I can feel it trying to keep us separated,” she said to him as they picked their way across slippery stones. “When I was attacked alone, you’d been but a pace in front of me, then vanished the next second.” He hummed in thought when she looked at him for an answer.

“That makes sense. I had thought you were at my back the entire time,” he said, then cleared his throat, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, “I felt your…touch at my hand, I thought perhaps you were warning me. When I looked, you were gone. Cole was already running back.” Maordrid's attention divided as her eyes fell upon a section of ground in the Fade ahead that suddenly cleared of the verdant mists. Solas was looking too, brows pinched in confusion. Rows of headstones occupied a perfect square within a small barrier. Yin was already standing in front of the first row reading each one.

“A graveyard?” she said, approaching cautiously. 

“A stone for each of us,” Alistair said dryly. “I daresay it is getting repetitive. Or at least less creative. It didn’t even care to change my fear.” Maordrid decided to look, worrying what she might see. They seemed to illustrate the fears of each person in their party—including those that weren’t present. Cole was standing by his, that which read _Despair,_ but he wasn’t looking at it as if that was enough to make it untrue. She saw Dhrui’s that read _letting them down._ For a moment, she considered stopping there. She didn’t need to know everything…but the terrible spy in her forced her to keep reading. Dorian’s was temptation. Yin’s was rejection, failure, and loneliness. She saw Solas standing before his own— _dying alone_. She passed him quietly, touching his hand as she did, eyes scanning the others. Dorian was at the very end of the last row, staring at one slightly removed from the others. A single scorch mark in the ground separated it from the others. The headstone itself was in bad shape, bearing claw marks and chips and cracks along its surface. Looking closer, she saw that the damage seemed to be obscuring words. When she realised it was hers, it also became apparent that the other incomplete words must have been other aliases she had once used. But conveniently, the only legible ones were at the centre.

_~~Naèv ..nso~~_

~~— _ja: time_~~

~~_Maordrid: losing herself_ ~~

Dorian bit his thumb, looking at her. “Is that your real name?” he asked, nodding to the first one. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “It was.” 

“Morbidness aside, it’s pretty,” he said. She said nothing, walking away. Just as she reached the entrance of the graveyard, there was a startled cry, followed by Solas shouting, _“Inquisitor!”_

She spun and saw Dorian and Solas standing where Yin’s large headstone was—or had been. She ran back in, pursued by Hawke, Alistair, and Cole. Dorian’s hands went to tangle in his hair, muttering frantically in Tevene, his wide, panicked eyes staring at a strange mirage-like warping in the air above the ground.

“What happened?” she demanded of them.

“The Inq—Yin touched his headstone,” Solas stammered, looking just as distressed as Dorian. “He vanished.” Alistair and Hawke cursed at the same time. Maori’s vision narrowed down to a black tunnel. _No. It’s my fault. This shouldn’t have happened—this didn’t happen before—_

“What do we do?” Hawke asked. Dorian shut his eyes tightly, then opened them once more where they affixed feverishly to Solas’ face.

“You, Solas—you’re the expert here,” he said. “Your time to shine.” Everyone looked to the wolf in their midst, a cloud of panic and fear hovering in the air like the mirage beside them. She’d never seen Solas look as he did now. His mask had come loose, his calm hanging on by a thread. A reflection of the fear she had seen in the false Fen’harel’s eyes was present in Solas’ now, but much more genuine. She could feel his emotions in the Fade, lying close to his skin like one of his barriers. Both hands gripped his staff in a white-knuckled grip. He wet his lips, mind clearly working at a thousand knots a second.

“I need…I need time,” he finally said. 

“Yin might not _have_ time, Solas,” Dorian said, his voice cracking as he vied for control over his own panic. 

“I am aware of that,” he snapped. 

“What do you need us to do, Solas?” Hawke interjected before Dorian could attack him. Her firm, airy voice seemed to break the spell holding them all hostage. Solas looked around them at the area, then back at the mirage in the air.

“I think—no, I _should_ theoretically be able to track him using the Mark. When he enters the Fade in dreams, I can typically follow the pull of it and find him that way. But that is when he is sleeping,” he said, then reached his fingers out to the warping, eyebrows ticking down as he closed his eyes. 

“It shouldn’t be difficult now that we are physically here, right?” Maori asked. He dropped his hand where it hung at his side, face conflicted. “Magic is stronger here in the raw Fade, therefore shouldn’t your abilities be as well?” She turned to Cole. “Can you sense him anywhere, Cole?” The spirit shook his head.

“I can’t hear him either. I am scared for him,” he said. Solas sighed and sat down in front of the mirage, crossing his legs and setting his staff across his thighs.

“I will try to find him another way, then. It will likely draw unwanted attention. I would appreciate it if you all kept nearby in case that happens.” He looked up at them expectantly. 

“Do what you have to,” Dorian said. Maordrid gave him a reassuring nod and posted herself right beside him. He gave a bare dip of his chin and closed his eyes, taking a deep meditative breath through his nose. Maori sensed his consciousness leave his body with ease, shooting through the Fade so fast she was certain none of the other mages had felt it themselves. 

“Is he doing a weird elf thing? What if he gets possessed?” Alistair asked after a moment. Maordrid resisted the urge to snap at the man for his ignorance. Dorian gave a hysterical chuckle.

“Solas? Possessed? Those two things don’t go together. He’ll find Yin,” he said. Maordrid was surprised at his faith in Solas, considering their tenuous relationship. 

“Ah, shit. That was fast,” Hawke said, pointing her staff back the way they had come. Through the haze, a chorus of screeches announced the arrival of more demons. What emerged were a combination of fears, though most were darkspawn or red templars.

“Stay by Solas,” Dorian ordered her while the others charged forward. She needed no prodding, casting a barrier over Solas’ body. From that distance, she did her best to support the others with ranged spells of ice and lightning.

They wanted Solas. The demons tried skirting around the combating mages, even going so far as to ignore glowing mines and glyphs hastily set in their paths. Maordrid was forced to tear her gaze from Solas to cut down two demons, turning her back entirely when she was attacked by some faceless horror with magic. It phased through the graveyard in a blur, coming straight for them. Maordrid threw up a disruption field to slow it—the tactic worked, revealing the blur to be an elf in a tattered grey shroud. It didn’t make any noise when it began casting, almost as though she’d suddenly lost her hearing. _Survive the first thirty breaths and you have already won_ , she remembered Solas’ advice to Blackwall. A semi-mundane piece of knowledge, but it was both clever and so ridiculous she couldn’t help but recall it on occasion.

Except, this was no normal demon. A conjuration of the other presence, then. It did not reveal its entire set of abilities—it seemed to be learning _hers._ In her grave underestimation, the disruption field proved only to slow it temporarily before it figured out how to escape the trap, countering her ice attacks with fire when she tried to stop it. The thing darted around the gravestones again, hurling volleys of magic that weren’t entirely precise, sometimes flying over her head rather than straight at her. It swung like a pendulum through the graveyard, from left to right, wider and wider, attacks sloppier and—

She heard a snap behind her as the barrier she had thrown over Solas was destroyed. It had been playing her the entire time, each misfired spell having been wearing his barrier down. The creature came in for the kill, blurring through the Fade with a black blade raised at Solas. She threw herself between them, throwing her right arm up with a shout. Her bracer blocked the blow meant for his neck, the metal hissing and spitting where the weapon had connected. Her enemy danced backward to avoid a swipe of her own weapon, unleashing a barrage of energy at them both. Maordrid cried out and threw herself over Solas’ body, taking the brunt of the damage to her back. Her vision wavered dangerously, her magic slipping from her grasp.

As they hit the ground, Solas’ eyes flew wide open, sharpening immediately as he saw what was happening. His arm wrapped around her waist, rolling her out of the way in order to cast a Devouring Veil that easily yanked the shrouded elf to a fixed point like a marionette. He slammed it to the ground with a furious Veilstrike. With a yell of exertion, Maordrid trapped it in a stasis, allowing them both to obliterate it with a flurry of ice and storm magics. Fight over, she frantically clawed off the bracer on her arm that was now sizzling into a hot soup of metal that was attempting to burn through her skin. The flesh beneath was angry and red, but not critical.

She looked at Solas, still sitting on the ground with his staff half-raised. He finally looked at her, face severe, though it softened some when he did.

“I found him.” She didn’t get her hopes up. Instead, she got back to her feet as the rest of the group came jogging back, covered in more Fade muck than before. A few of them had derived some new wounds and tears in armour, but were otherwise looking eager to find the Inquisitor. Her back ached like she’d just survived a stoning. 

“Any luck?” Dorian asked. Solas nodded, brushing himself off.

“Follow me,” he said. They fell in with him as a phalanx, eyes peeled and nerves on edge. 

“Don’t leave us in the dark, what did you find out there?” Alistair asked when Solas took them back the way they came. They climbed back up the zig-zagging path, only to stop at the bottom of the one where they had seen the Pride demon. Once again, Solas gripped his staff in silence peering up the path. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he swallowed. His apprehension was beginning to wear down her own resolve.

“I was able to track a faint magical signature past this area. However, I was unable to follow it past a strange barrier. I believe the Inquisitor must be on the other side,” he said. Small quakes in the ground told her the massive demon was still wandering around at the top of that path.

“Do you think it’s the Nightmare demon or…?” she asked him in a small voice. Solas’ lips pressed briefly into a line.

“The barrier was of similar makeup to the one I had to pass through to get into your dream back at Skyhold,” he said, confirming her fears. “We shouldn’t dally.”

“That demon—”

“Demons. I saw two of them,” Hawke said, cutting Alistair off. He glared at her.

“If the Inquisitor is past them, then you’ll need a distraction,” the Warden continued. “But you should take someone with you.” Solas looked at her.

“Maker, I want to find Yin myself, but Maori, you should go with him. If it’s the demon you know, then…perhaps you are best fitted to go instead. Plus, you’re Somniari too,” Dorian said.

“But aren’t you vulnerable to it?” Hawke added. 

“We all are, technically. It’s her or Cole,” Dorian argued. “And, no offence, Cole, but my vote is with the elf.”

“It is probably safer if I go,” Maori finally said. “And…I should, anyway. If it is the creature, I should be the one to face it. It’s my fault.” 

“We’ll play blame later on, just go get our Lavellan back,” Dorian said, spinning his staff with determination. Solas looked at her expectantly and held his hand out.

“Can you cloak us both?” he asked. She nodded and upon taking his hand felt his will flow through the contact, boosting her magical strength. 

“All right you two, we’ll pull those demons—you run,” Hawke said, stepping around them. Maori waited for the others to run ahead, then surrounded them in a blanket of the Fade, hiding them from sight. 

“Lead the way,” she told him and then they were dashing up the path. The others had engaged a couple of Prides when they reached the top. Solas pulled her into the shadows of some sharp metal spikes, heading for a darkened crevice hidden behind a small waterfall. 

“Through here,” he said, passing beneath it. She followed, grimacing when the water seeped into her armour. She released her hold on the cloak to preserve their strengths. The crack was so narrow that even she had to turn sideways to get through it. The slippery black stone that made up the narrow corridor gave her a mild sense of claustrophobia and urgency when she began to ponder if the demon might try to crush them between the rocks like ants—or trap them on the other side. She was glad neither happened when they popped out on the other side and had to pass through a tunnel made of jagged green stone. Their surroundings began to look uncannily similar to what the Temple of Sacred Ashes had looked like after the blast. Twisted, scorched corpses dotted one area…and then she noticed that some of them had distinct Elvhen features. A single broken statue of Mythal stood riddled with vines of red lyrium, right across from a howling Fen’harel. Between them was an archway from which a humming sound was emanating. Solas paused just before the statues, eyes hardening at their sight.

“This is where Yin is?” she asked, coming to stop beside him. 

“Through there, I think. I can feel the Mark stronger here,” he said. She peered up at the statues uneasily.

“Mythal…and Fen’harel,” she said, noting the minute stiffening at his title. “I see no other statues. I wonder why that is.”

“Two prominent figures in Dalish legend,” he said. “This is no time to ponder the machinations of the demon.” And that was all he had to say on the subject. She walked ahead of him through the arch, feeling a little foolish for the comment. 

Through the arch was a great hall—or perhaps a cathedral. She realised it must have been the inside of the Temple before its destruction. The farther they progressed, the less sense any of it made. More statues appeared—too faded to make out distinguishing details—as well as faded murals, and finally, the yellowish clouds that had begun to appear in random spots. They flickered oddly and she found that if she looked long enough, visions appeared. She thought she saw an image of Arlathan in one. It was burning, shattering. She moved on quickly, hoping Solas didn’t see. Her suspicions had been confirmed— _this_ was the demon taunting _him._

She was almost relieved when they finally broke free of the Temple and appeared at the edge of a forest that had no business being there. The trees disappeared into a massive, oily-looking barrier. The hum was louder here, sounding like the throat chanting of a choir of deranged priests. Maordrid set her jaw, gripping her staff tightly.

“Are you ready?” she asked him. He nodded curtly, then raised his hand, placing it against the barrier. He stepped through and was gone. Maordrid took a deep breath and followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demon's words to Maori:
> 
>  _Sila na enasalin, shielan? Is druemah es’var alas’en—elithas esaya? Dina, ane’din telam’el ish’ala esayem bana’vara i’ve_  
>  Roughly:  
>  _"Do you think you will succeed/triumph, Traveller? He will sacrifice everything--will you do the same? In the end, you will be no better than those you sought to destroy before."_
> 
> Maori to Demon:  
>  _Ma sila ma eolasa ara’nas, ahnsul ma av’ahn?_  
>  Again, roughly:  
>  _"If you think you know my self-journey/heart, then why are you asking?"_
> 
>    
> (pls don't hurt me, I tried)  
> final note: I'm going out of town for a few days, so I hope this tides you over...or not ;)


	61. Oath to Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote to [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlYJYNJDHVc) More or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details no one asked for:  
> Spent the entire weekend writing and rewriting Yin's nightmare. There were so many possibilities. It started as a wedding gone wrong, to a welcome-home at Clan Lavellan (after being away for so long), then to what it is now. This is so much darker than what it started off as.

His knees ached where they contacted a frigid stone floor. When he shifted to the side, leaning in an attempt to alleviate some of the discomfort, his entire body protested through a cry of pain that escaped his cracked lips. A sharper, burning pain flared in his left shoulder where he knew muscles had been torn, radiating up his neck and into his skull where it pulsated in a white hot knot. 

Something about the pain was familiar, its feeling amplified by the fear he felt upon opening his eyes. It was all dark, wherever he was. He couldn’t remember how he had even gotten there. One moment, he’d been dining at the head of a feast, surrounded by ambassadors, noblemen, and other politicians seeking to gain favour with him, to secure a position of power from within his new empire. One of peace and prosperity—a world that he had toiled and striven to build for years with the power he had been given. 

A flash of green in the darkness was followed by an agony he had thought himself free of. It had been dormant all this time and now—it wasn’t just in his palm. The malicious emerald pulsed in his hand and made its way up through his arm, constricting his muscles as it branched out like lightning. _No, no, no!_ he thought when it continued up into his shoulder. His whole body shook, then convulsed—he clenched his teeth so hard he thought his molars might have cracked. The vision in his left eye went bright green and he thought he was going to die. 

Three seconds. It was over. And it had left him completely drained, panting and dripping with sweat. The Mark had diminished to a faint glow and a dull ache. Yin fell sideways onto the stone with a groan, pressing his cheek into the coldness to seek some relief from the pounding pain in his head.

“ _Such suffering that mark causes you._ ” Yin started at the voice, eyes rolling in their sockets, seeking out the source. _“Poor child of the People, the world has been unkind to you. Allow me to pay you a small kindness. May I help you?”_ He considered it a moment, wondering if he knew that voice. The stranger spoke his native tongue but in a way that sounded like it wasn’t their own. Their tongue curled awkwardly around the syllables. Yin nodded once and grunted in pain when a pair of hands at his neck and shoulder eased him back up to a sitting position. His kicked his legs out and would have fallen onto his back if the stranger in the dark had not steadied him.

_“Who are you?”_ Yin responded in kind. _“Why am I here?”_

“ _What answer do you desire more?_ ” the voice asked. It was deep, moreso than even the ancient magister’s he had killed years ago. It reminded him of steel in the heart of a forge, hot and overbearing. It was the only way he could describe it. He felt like he should be afraid and yet the presence had not given him any reason to be. Yet.

“ _The ‘why’,_ ” Yin decided in a wry voice. A mirthless chuckle answered.

“ _Of all people, you should know ‘why’,_ ” the other said.

_“I don’t understand,”_ Yin cried. _“None of this makes sense.”_ He lifted his hands, shaking the shackles that bound them. 

“ _But it does,”_ the presence said. _“Who are_ _ **you**_?” Yin opened his mouth, then shut it, realising this was no simple answer. It was more than _Yin Lavellan._

__

__

_“Inquisitor. Sky-Healer. High Keeper of New Elvhenan. Hero of Thedas,_ ” he recited. From a simple Dalish mage to one of the most revered figures in Thedosian history, he had climbed every rung, jumped through every hoop, spilled his own blood for the betterment of his world.

_“And bearer of an ancient, godlike magic,_ ” the stranger added. _“Its mark has made all of your feats possible. You were their hero, fighting your way through physical threats. Now, you attempt to tame the demons at court where power lies in secrets and knowledge—not magic. They do not take kindly to your attempts to wash away the mire they have burrowed into. For they are the very beings responsible for the strife that remains in this world you have so carefully shepherded into a more favourable era. They, like many power-hoarders before them, do not want their secrets to be uncovered. You were too trusting of people, Inquisitor. Your own allies turn against you.”_

_“Who? The Inquisition? I_ had _to trust them if we were to save the world!”_ he defended.

_“No,”_ the other said, sure as stone. _“A foolish notion. The Inquisition was built on criminals, liars, and fickle faith. Ben Hassrath, petty criminals like the Red Jenny, mindless Chantry Templars, apostates, murderers, traitors—each joined because associating with you meant power for them. A way to further their own goals. Your organisation should have been nothing but a tool. Yet in your softness, you nurtured it into something you can no longer control. Your own creation has deemed you a threat. You must be dealt with.”_

_“They mean to kill me? What have I done other than play to their tune? Dance as a puppet on their strings?”_ he demanded, temper flaring like the Mark. It sputtered in response to his emotions, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. _“Everything I have done has been for_ them _.”_

_“Then perhaps you should do something for yourself,_ ” the stranger said. Yin tossed his shackled hands.

_“Looks like I am fresh out of options,_ ” he said.

_“I could help you.”_ Yin’s laugh rasped like snake skin dragging across stone.

_“You? I haven’t even seen your face. I don’t know your name or why you want to help me—and I definitely don’t trust you. That is the only good advice you have given so far,”_ he said.

_“I know how to reverse all of this. I could free you from this nightmare,”_ the other said. Yin licked his lips.

_“If you speak the truth…then what do you want in return?”_ he asked, figuring it didn’t hurt to at least do that.

_“Do not forget this exchange. Let no one exert their influence upon you again. Show no mercy.”_ Yin leaned forward, ignoring the hundred or so aches that felt the need to remind him that they were still there. Very carefully, he climbed to his feet in the dark, swaying dangerously when his heart struggled to pump blood to his brain in response to the postural change.

_“Then let my first act be to deny you,”_ he sneered into the blackness. His words were met with laughter.

_“Very good,”_ his company said. _“Urbeshalin him adahl. Ra him ha’lam, tuast enemah. Sule sal harthir,_ Inquisitor. _”_

A rectangle of blinding whiteness split the darkness, forcing him to look away. The Mark cracked and spat in greeting of the new arrival, causing Yin to yell out once again. He blinked through the tears of pain at the doorway and saw the outline of a woman standing with her hand resting on a sword at her hip.

“Grab him,” she ordered. Two figures slipped past her into the cell that he now recognised. Haven. He was back at Haven after all these years. _But hadn't it been destroyed? Did they rebuild it?_ The guards hooked their arms under his and dragged him forward through the door. He twisted his stiff neck, trying to get a good look at the woman giving orders. High cheekbones, scars, and eyes as hard as diamonds. 

“Cassandra?” he asked. She ignored him in favour of taking the lead, walking quickly up a stairwell. His guards hardly waited for him, causing him to trip clumsily up the stairs. They emerged from the grey tunnel into yet another familiar place—the main hall of Skyhold. None of it made sense. Instead of pestering the warrior with questions, he chose to wait. They had a destination in mind, clearly. He would get answers.

Yet, his certainty faltered when they escorted him out of the main keep. A crowd awaited them at the bottom of the staircase and on the other side of them was a wooden scaffolding.

He recognised faces. Once they had been friendly, smiling and proud. Now they watched him with enmity, indifference, and smugness. 

“What is going on?” he asked loudly enough that he hoped  one of them would answer. Why did they hate him? What had he done? Their glares burned holes in his soul like a glass lens held over paper beneath the sun. The guards deposited him carelessly onto the planks of the platform, right in front of a chopping block. It was still stained with the blood of some poor soul _he_ had likely judged. And now he was here without any given reason. He glared up at Cassandra. “I fought for you all. For peace and justice, and this is how I’m repaid? Without explanation—taken against my will while I was negotiating for the benefit of the people?” Cassandra scoffed, her loathing for him clear on her face. It twisted her features, made her ugly.

“Is that what you call this? Peace? For who? Your elves?” she sneered. “You are a despot, Lavellan. You took our trust and twisted it in on itself.”

“What are you talking about? I stand for all races—”

“Don’t make me laugh. You may have swayed the nations with that talk once, but we have all seen the truth.” Yin moved his jaw soundlessly, all the pain suddenly becoming an annoyance in the background.

“R-Read me all that I am accused of,” he said—ordered. Cassandra’s steely eyes flicked to someone out of view. She nodded curtly.

“The following accusations have been proven true with one or more evidences to back them up,” Cullen Rutherford’s voice rang out. “Yin Lavellan’s Writ of Riposte—all and any elves may strike down humans deemed a threat on the roads or forests. The Exodus—all humans must leave any city claimed by the Inquisitor. Any human that fails to do so falls within the Writ of Riposte. The Thedosian Goods Act—any goods produced or supplied by humans will be taxed by ninety-five percent; elven goods receive priority on the market with a negotiable tax,” Cullen sighed, taking a deep breath before continuing, “The Annulment of the Chantry…that’s self explanatory. Must I go on? Almost all of these are in favour of the elves or something he’s done to put riches in his pockets.” Yin just sat there staring into space. _This isn’t right. They’re making this up, I never did any of this! It was all for them!_ He scanned the faces in the crowd, finding Sera first of all people. She had always worn her emotions plain on her face—it wasn’t any different now, except her hatred was directed at him. Brows and nose scrunched up, lips turned down, arms crossed.

“Sera,” he begged, but the girl shook her head quickly.

“Don’t even try, arsebrain. You got too big and forgot what it was to be little. Killed a lotta my people, you did. We’re not _elfy_ enough for you. Good riddance,” she said, spitting to the side. “We’re pissin’ into the wind with this fancy show. I say put an arrow in his throat and be done with it. Same way you killed Blackwall. No use in draggin’ it out, yeah, Cully?” _I killed Blackwall? Gods above, I never…no, please this can’t be true. Then why do I remember doing it?_ Yin looked to Iron Bull next, standing right behind her.

“Don’t look at me, _Bas_. Your thing made sense for a while. Rights for the elves, sure whatever,” Bull said, “But your Riposte got all my Chargers picked off. For no reason. They didn’t deserve that. Hey, maybe we should wait to execute him! When I return to the Qun, I could take him with me. Turn him into my people.”

“It wasn’t my order,” Yin said faintly, the protest barely making it off his tongue. “It wasn’t me…” The Mark began to ache again and he could feel it charging up for another attack. Maybe he could open a rift, get away…? He closed his fist to keep it hidden.

“I still think we should consider the Tranquil route,” Madam Vivienne drawled from somewhere in the crowd. “Take away what makes him a threat and order him to clean up the mess he made. Death is too much of a mercy for him.” Yin was unprepared for when the magic in his hand surged so violently that it yanked him up and nearly over the chopping block. The green branches spread up his arm again, flashing like lightning. It didn’t fade away completely this time. It continued to crackle, his spasming painfully into a claw over the glowing scar. “That little display proves my point,” Vivienne remarked dryly. When Yin finally regained the strength to look up from his hand, his eyes landed on Maori and Solas right beside her. They looked upon him with indifference and it cut as deeply as any blade.

“Maori…you know me,” he rasped, tears rolling down his cheeks. She shook her head and turned her back on him. “Solas, please!” The elf raised his head, lips parting slightly as his eyes lifted to rest on Cassandra beside him.

“The Mark is consuming him. Should you like to see him suffer, the only thing you need execute is patience. The magic will do the rest,” he said, then promptly turned and walked away with Maordrid.

Dorian took their place, right at the front. He didn’t want to hear how he had wronged him. His beloved. 

“ _Vhenan…_ ” he breathed, the fight beginning to drain from him. Dorian’s face was a sculpture of sadness and disappointment. Flashes of a heated argument turned violent surfaced behind Yin’s eyes. Dorian had caught him with another lover. Yin had struck him for the accusation.

“You’ve no right to call me that,” Dorian said. Yin never thought he would have ever hated the sound of that voice. “I should have known better. You flounder through life the same way you do with lovers. Your tongue paints pretty words to hide the lies beneath. Make sure to cut it out before or after you behead him, Cullen. Don’t want him coming back from death with an army rallied upon lies.” Dorian smiled pleasantly and made to leave like Maori and Solas. Yin’s scream echoed his pain, rage, and betrayal—with it, he directed the magic in his hand after Dorian, forsaking all reason. A bolt of green exploded forward eagerly and lanced the air above Dorian, tearing a hole in reality. Many people screamed as they fled the rift, some were sucked in. Dorian barely had time to turn and looked at him with disbelief before he, too, was gone. _Gods, what have I done? I am a monster._ A strangled, animalistic cry ripped from his throat. 

“Kill him, now!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Urbeshalin him adahl. Ra him ha’lam, tuast enemah. Sule sal harthir_ =  
> My translation: _'The seedling becomes a tree. It is an end, but from it comes a beginning.'_  
>  Channeling my inner Wheel of Time...  
>  _Sule sal harthir = Until we hear of each other again_  
>  spooky.
> 
> If no one really understood what was going on, Yin believed he was years in the future after Corypheus' defeat. Kind of a Dark!Yin. Sorry, it's been a long day.


	62. The Moth and the Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates back to back since they're small. 
> 
> I'm sorry for the abysmal chapter names.

She was ejected from the barrier like a bolt from a crossbow and barely had time to shout a warning as she collided with Solas at high speed. The two of them rolled across a grassy surface before coming to a stop in a groaning pile. Maori planted a hand against her aching head in an attempt to stave off the vertigo. Solas moved on top of her swearing an oath under his breath as he braced himself on his forearms, freezing when he realised their current predicament. He was all but covering her with his body, save for his knee that was planted uncomfortably against her thigh. When the world stopped spinning, she blinked up at him when he hadn’t moved. 

“As much as I like this idea, it is incredibly uncomfortable and poorly timed,” she said before she could stop herself. Her words snapped him out of his own head. He pushed off of her then and stood, offering her both his hands. When she took them and joined him on her feet, his face was red with embarrassment. His eyes moved everywhere but back to her own. 

“I think…we are back at Skyhold,” he said suddenly, clearing his throat. After she retrieved her fallen staff, she took stock of their surroundings, recognising the area from…ah yes, the oasis he had taken her the night they had reunited for the first time after Haven. Except, it lacked the beauty it had that evening. The grass was brown and all the clover and flowers that had been there before were but blackened stems. There was no sign of the lazy wisps either. 

“Do you sense Yin?” she asked, trying to ignore the sadness she felt over the oasis’ condition. Solas nodded and took the lead once again. 

“It is stronger now. But…there is something strange,” he said as they hurried along, keeping their eyes constantly moving for signs of trouble. Curiously, she opened herself up and cast her aura out, tasting the Fade. She felt it almost immediately, high above where Skyhold sat atop its mountain. “Do you feel it?”

“There is a disturbance. Small, but powerful…concentrated. Growing? Like ice expanding in a too-small vessel,” she said. 

He nodded, glancing back at her with a half-pleased, half-worried expression. “That is the Mark. Something is wrong. It has progressed at an alarming rate. More than what should be possible.” 

“It might not be real,” she said as they crossed the thin stone bridge. “The Nightmare…or the other could be projecting that reality onto Yin.”

“Nevertheless, we should hurry. It always left lasting damage on you. I fear what it may be doing to him.” That thought scared her. She considered even turning into a raven to get up there faster, but then that would leave Solas open to danger. They were better together anyway. So she remained behind him, climbing up the treacherous path in silence.

At long last, they reached the outside of Skyhold’s walls where the familiar magic was detectable even from there. When they reached the first gatehouse, she had to physically stop Solas from continuing head-on into the danger that undoubtedly awaited them. She pushed him into cover, out of sight of the battlements, cutting off the beginnings of his protest with a raised finger.

“If we go in there without some kind of plan, we are in trouble,” she hissed. “How are you on lyrium?” He patted his waist, practised fingers barely touching the vials hidden behind his cloak.

“Four left,” he said. She nodded, forcing her mind into stratagem mode. She could sense a large gathering within Skyhold, but it was difficult to tell which ones were illusion and which were true threats. Another surge of magic raised the hairs on her neck and arms beneath her armour. An agonised scream rose from the centre of the walls. They both looked after it with rising urgency.

“If you boost me, I can protect us both. But you should conserve as much strength as you can for when we reach Yin,” she told him, then took a step back from him to begin crossing the bridge. Solas wrenched her back by the shoulder.

“You cannot seriously think you will take on the number of creatures that wait in there? Alone?” he whisper-hissed. A snort escaped her.

“Have you forgotten who you are speaking to?” she said, pausing long enough for him to think. His face softened for half a second before his nose wrinkled with displeasure.

“Sometimes, yes,” he said, running his hand over his scalp nervously. “Very well. On your lead.” She nodded and summoned a sword, tying it off to conserve her strength. Almost immediately, two figures appeared at the other end of the bridge. 

“Is that—?” Solas immediately cut off when a Stonefist wreathed in fire shot across the bridge at them, followed by a few bolts of frost. Maordrid threw up her own wall of ice to cut off the attacks and a half-Aegis when Solas finally remembered to feed her his will. She shattered the ice wall with a clench of her fist and immediately engaged the mirror-images of herself and Solas. They focused upon her since she had made herself the most immediate threat. The false-Maori didn’t conjure a spirit weapon which was testament to the demon’s inferiority with magic, but she was quick with spells and glyphs. The other Solas attempted to flank or get behind her, but she’d been waiting for him with a few sneakily-placed mines of her own that were meant to hinder his movement more than damage him. The other her, while formidable, exhausted her abilities quickly. The demon favoured ice over anything else and kept trying to trap her with those damn glyphs and a few disruption fields, trying to keep its distance from her. But it was running out of bridge to retreat. As Maordrid spun to bat away false-Solas’ bladed staff, she Fade stepped backward through an ice glyph that exploded under her right foot and blasted off her greave, but brought her within deadly reach of her other self. The demons closed in excitedly, tricked into believing she had been crippled. But with a backward thrust of her sword, she sheathed the blade in the other woman’s stomach and ducked just as demon-Solas’ staff swung around to finish the job, decapitating his ally. The swing overhead left him open to her own finishing move—she ripped her blade free of the other Maordrid’s body only to push it between his ribs, the spirit splitting his flesh soundlessly. The weight of what she had done fell on her at the same time that Solas slumped forward onto her. She let go of her sword and hooked her arms beneath his so that she could lower his body to the ground. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to be so gentle with the demon. It wasn’t him. But it still hurt. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his still face, but when a hand settled on her back, she straightened and looked up at the real Solas whose face was soft, lips beginning to form words. But whatever he had been about to say was once again stopped at the sound of a rift opening in the upper courtyard.

_“Kill him, now!”_ a Nevarran voice commanded. She could just see the top of some kind of platform and the hunched shoulders of a familiar man. Commander Cullen and Cassandra stood on either side of Yin—the ex-Templar was unsheathing his sword.

“Shift,” Solas said, his voice desperate. “Now!” She knew exactly what he meant and needed no prodding, casting her flesh away in favour of the hawk hybrid. With a single beat of her wings, she shot up into the courtyard and introduced Cullen to her talons, closing them around his shoulders and pulling him clean off the scaffolding. As they toppled into the dirt below, she sprang out of her form at the demon, taking no more pleasure in his death than she had with the false-Solas. 

The courtyard was a chaotic scene with rifts and angry magic. She had landed with Cullen right near the tavern. Turning to gauge the scene, she immediately spun with a dagger in hand when something touched her back. The point of her blade pressed against Solas’ right carotid. Wisely, he did not move until she removed it. His eyes were less alarmed than they were amused, which was…odd. She wanted to smack him.

“Let’s go,” she said gruffly as she sheathed the dagger at her back, then charged around the scaffolding, taking the stairs three at a time. At the top, Yin was narrowly blocking Cassandra’s attacks with Cullen’s fallen sword while his hands were bound by shackles. Maordrid launched herself forward at Cassandra, intercepting her blows with her own staff and kicking the demon in the stomach which took it off the platform much in the same manner as Cullen. 

“Maori!” The distress in Solas’ voice had her turning around, expecting to see enemies on him—but no, Cullen’s sword caught her in the side of her head and would have killed her if it hadn’t been for her helm. Instead, she staggered to the side and nearly fell of the scaffolding again. 

“I’ll kill you both!” Yin screamed in rage, raising the sword for another blow. She went to throw up her staff in defence, but found there was no need when the sword was yanked from his hands by a well-aimed spell from Solas.

“Inquisitor, it is us!” he cried, keeping his distance. He fired another few spells at some demons wearing the faces of Inquisition members that were attempting to reach them from below. Maordrid was forced to dodge another attack from Yin—one he executed with the Mark. Her eyes widened in horror when she finally got a good look at him. The magic had spread all the way up his arm and into his neck. She could feel it charging up, thrumming in the air around him.

“Solas, we have to get him out of here!” she shouted, leaning back to avoid an arrow shot at her from below. She cast another half-Aegis around her and Yin, looking around frantically while avoiding the Inquisitor’s wrath. There were two rifts in the courtyard and it looked like most of the enemies had dwindled in their presence. Yin cast magic in an attempt to kill her with his bound hands—of which she was glad they were—making it slightly easier to dance around him. With a spin of her staff, she knocked his legs out from underneath him, putting him on his stomach. She planted her staff against his back to keep him down.

“Traitor,” Yin said into the wood, spittle flying from his lips. “Kill me then, Maordrid.” She looked up just as Solas slipped around the Aegis to join them.

“I see the way out,” he said, then pointed up, behind her. She followed his hand and saw something like a rift—except it was swirling like a whirlpool of water—at the top of the Inquisitor’s tower, hovering just beyond the balcony. Her stomach dropped at how far away it was.

“You’d defend that monster?” an image of Iron Bull shouted from below. “All right, have it your way.” Solas cast her a panicked look.

“Take care of Yin. I will handle this,” she said, summoning her spear and tying off the Aegis. She tossed her staff onto the ground and then dashed from cover, throwing herself over the Iron Bull while thrusting her spear downward. It caught the demon in the shoulder, but he batted her out of the air with the flat of his great axe like a cat pawing at a moth. She hit the ground with a grunt, but used the momentum to roll back to her feet into a low crouch, still holding her spear.

“Should I stick her with an arrow?” she heard a likeness of Sera ask Bull.

“Nah, this fight is mine. You focus on the Inquisitor,” he growled, then roared, charging forward. Facing him was like going up against a falling mountain. She had to throw all of her weight into jumping out of the way, rolling yet again and springing back up into a sprint despite how her muscles were beginning to protest. She chucked her spear at his side but only managed to lodge it in his meaty thigh. His roar was coloured with rage more than pain as he pulled the spirit spear from his leg and advanced once again, this time slower when he realised she was without a weapon. She needed lyrium if she was going to summon another spear or sword, so she was indeed caught between a rock and a hard place. She retreated up the scaffolding, intending to retrieve her staff and coax him onto the platform where she would be able to knock him off and into the courtyard below. Demons weren’t smart. That proved as much when she saw Solas sling an ice spike at the demon shooting arrows at them. Sera died with a screech that sounded nothing like her.

Maordrid’s attention was forced back on Bull when he attempted to split her in half, the axe lodging into the wood of the scaffolding where she'd just been standing. She kicked the Qunari in the face and scrambled backward up the stairs, crawling clumsily on all fours for her staff lying just feet from where Solas crouched over Yin who had finally calmed some. They both shouted her name, but _she was so close._

“I’m gonna take a lot of pleasure in killing you,” the image of Bull said as her fingers were closing around the staff. His giant foot stepped on it, crushing her fingers in her gauntlets. She cried out in pain and cast a desperate bolt of electricity at the Qunari, struggling like a mouse caught in a trap. The demon finally let up, stunned momentarily by the electricity. She had just enough time to yank her fingers free and wrench the staff from under his boot.

With a fierce cry, she unleashed a burst of force-magic from the end of her staff at the same time that Bull had recovered. But as the spell knocked him off balance, his great axe swung up and connected with her helm, the force of which threw her backward. Her head connected with the chopping block and she went sailing into blackness.


	63. The Tower, Reversed

Yin thought to reach for the sword Solas had knocked from his hands—to take it and plunge it into the cursed elf’s neck. But with his arms bound and the Mark fighting him against every move he made, he was at his old friend’s mercy. He had just enough strength to roll onto his back. He wanted to look into the man’s eyes when he died. 

“ _Traitor. Harellan!”_ Yin snapped at him. He relished the way that Solas visibly flinched, shutting his eyes as if against a physical blow. “You turned your back on me when I loved you as kin. Ironic that you’d be the one to kill me after trying so hard to save me.” Solas knelt beside him, his face displaying nothing close to the indifference he had previous to walking away. It was…stricken. Broken. The other scathing words boiling on his tongue turned to ash when Solas took his left hand in a manner devoid of malice. 

“Your hand…” Solas voice broke and Yin felt something in his mind waver and begin to crumble like cooling embers. The Mark snapped angrily, pulling a groan from between his teeth. “It is too charged, it must be purged. I may be able to subdue it then.” But just as he said that, Maordrid appeared on the scaffolding with a panicked expression, clearly escaping someone. She reached out for the staff she had dropped earlier but then Iron Bull appeared behind her. 

“Maori!” Yin and Solas shouted at the same time. Bull stepped on her staff, trapping her fingers. Maori cried out in pain and immediately lashed out at him with lightning. The attack managed to free her and in that small window of pause, she retrieved her staff and blasted Bull, throwing him backward, but not far enough. The Qunari’s arms flailed, the one with the axe swinging out and catching the small elf in the head. 

“No!” Solas shouted as she crumpled to the ground by the chopping block. Bull regained his balance and when he realised his quarry had been thwarted, he raised his axe above his head to finish her off. Yin clambered to his feet and thrust his hand forward, a shapeless scream tearing its way from his throat as he pushed all of the magic out of his hand at the Qunari. It erupted from the slash as though he had bottled a gathering storm in his palm and it had only been awaiting release. The green-blue magic engulfed the Iron Bull in a flash so bright it leeched the colour from everything. When it faded, there was nothing left of him. Despite his body’s every desire to collapse and fall into an endless sleep, he forced himself to keep on his feet. Yin looked back at Solas, feeling like a husk built of regret. 

“None of this was real,” Yin said aloud. He reached out to the Fadewalker with his hands, “Solas, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it!” The man just stared in abject horror at the Mark.

“Yin, your hand—”

“Oh, Creators, Maori!” He spun, eyes seeking the fallen elf. “Her first,” Yin told him. Solas didn’t brook an argument, rushing to the fallen elf where he knelt, brows knitted in worry. Solas gathered her gently into his arms, pulling the helm from her head and whispering to her as he brushed shaky fingers across her brow. Her eyelids twitched and then finally fluttered open at the same time that a groan fell from her lips. She blinked rapidly, the glaze of unconsciousness fading from her eyes and sharpening back into their usual steel. Solas looked like he wanted nothing more than to kiss her better.

“Yin?” she croaked, trying to crane her neck around. 

“I thought I told you never to come after me again,” he said, going to a knee beside them with a wince. 

“Then stop getting into trouble,” she said, sitting up with Solas’ help. She shied away from his attempts to heal her, pointing over to Yin. Solas sighed in frustration, but got to his feet. “What happened here? You…don’t seem yourself.”

“I…don’t know,” Yin said, mind foggy. “I thought you two had left. They were going to execute me…”

“Those were demons,” Solas said. “Whatever you experienced here was only a projection.” Yin shook his head, looking down at the shackles as he attempted to sift through the myriad of confusing thoughts and memories that were both his own and not. Solas took his shackled hand again between his own. “Maori, can you aid me?” There was a grunt and the light ringing of mail as she joined them on her feet. 

“Lyrium?” she asked with a look of distaste. 

“Right side. Take two,” Solas said, eyes already distant with concentration. Yin felt a soothing magic pooling in his hand around the jagged magic of the Mark. Maori reached around Solas’ waist and pulled out a vial that she downed with a grimace. She placed her hand against Solas’ shoulder, eyelids shutting halfway. Yin marvelled at her when a faint opalescent light emanated from her eyes as she fed her will into the other mage. He had never noticed that before. He focused on that while Solas’ magic intensified in his hand, combating with the unruly Mark. Moments later, there was a metallic popping noise and Solas stumbled back, glaring at his hand as though it had offended him.

“What happened?” Yin asked. 

“It resisted me. I…I do not think the Anchor has spread as much as it appears. It only _looks_ that way,” Solas said in astonishment. “Leaving this place may return you to normal. Well. Relative normalcy.”

“We should head for that rift in the tower,” Maordrid said, sliding her helm back onto her head. “This place feels unstable. And there may be more demons lurking.” She glanced at the shackles binding his hands. She reached out and touched the metal, ice appearing and spreading from the contact point. Clenching her fist flash-froze the metal and shattered it, freeing him. 

“Let’s go,” Yin agreed, rubbing his wrists. Solas ended up having to assist him with walking while Maordrid ventured ahead to keep an eye out. At the top of the stairs leading into the main hall, a strange wet humming noise came from behind them. Yin paused, half-turning with Solas to look back. He was horrified to see that the rifts he had opened earlier were beginning to widen, devouring the reality of the dream—or nightmare, whichever it was. “Go, go, go!” Yin shouted. The three of them raced through the grand hall, Maordrid holding the door open to the tower, allowing them to squeeze through. The shrieks of demons escaped past the door as she slammed it closed. “Why are there so many damn stairs? Stupid towers,” Yin panted, sweat beading on his brow from the effort it took to move his damaged body. He tried not to lean too heavily on Solas, bracing himself against the stone wall as they climbed.

“Yes. I am cursing the fool that had this built,” Solas said with a breathy laugh. They reached the final stair just as the door at the bottom buckled, then splintered like glass. Demons in form of the Inquisition members they had not killed raced up the stairs. Once Maordrid was through the chamber door, she shut it and warded it, drawing some kind of glyph in its enchantment that he didn’t know. The three of them reached the top of the tower and onto the balcony where the portal hovered quite some distance away. 

“We’re going to have to jump. Our fucking luck,” Yin growled, peering over the side. Behind, the door boomed, signalling the quick arrival of their enemies. And worse, the nightmare was deteriorating quickly. The entire courtyard below was a lightless void now spreading up the tower. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

“You are going to bloody have to,” Maordrid snapped, spinning to face the door. “Solas, have you ever inverted a Mind Blast?”

“I…no?” he said, reeling. 

“It is the same principle as the original spell, but you direct it beneath you—” _Boom!_ “—it’s dangerous if done wrong, you could rupture an organ. Lightning strikes a rod and travels down a wire into the ground. Same with the spell—direct the magic through your body with the exit being your feet. Snap the Veil—or the Fade at the last second and it will propel you into the air.” The door whined and cracked loudly in protest.

“And into that rift,” Solas said thoughtfully. “Yes, brilliant.” Maordrid nodded in satisfaction, still watching the entry. There was a massive explosion with flame and ice that blew out the wall opposite the door. 

“ _LAVELLAN!”_ bellowed the demon borrowing Cassandra’s face.

“You first,” she said, fingers flexing along her staff. Solas turned back to Yin.

“Ready,” he told the Fadewalker. Solas pulled his arm over his shoulders again, wrapping his arm around his waist.

“Anytime you two!” Maori shouted as she engaged Cassandra. Solas hesitated, fingers tightening briefly at his side. There was a curse behind them and suddenly Maordrid barrelled into their backs, throwing them all over the edge of the balcony. “Now!” she screamed. Yin’s heart dropped, but then immediately shot into his mouth when the Fade snapped around them as two mages cast at the same time, changing the plummet into a short-lived ascension. He closed his eyes instinctively as they passed through the churning rift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yinnnn!  
> щ(ºДºщ)
> 
> _Solassss!_  
>  щ(ಥДಥщ)
> 
> Maori:  
> (´×ω×`)


	64. Dhava Anbanal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _Let the blade pass through the flesh,_  
>  _Let my blood touch the ground,_  
>  _Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice. _  
> __
> 
>   
>  _Andraste, 7:12_   
>    
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song I listen to when I write most of my fight/dramatic scenes [The Escape Artist (Zoe Keating)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYrcXX4nWOA). 
> 
> [The Farewell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iTqW_2FRXuo) fits as well.

They were spat out of the nightmare into murky water like gob from a farmer’s mouth. 

She sank like a stone.

Maordrid saw her staff float up to the surface without her while the weight of her armour carried her downward. She clawed, climbed upward, but the movement only served to put strain on her lungs. The bass sound of a body hitting water reached her ears and then arms hooked beneath hers, straining upward. She kicked with her feet, aiding her rescuer until they broke the surface sputtering. He didn’t let her go until they reached a rocky shore, where they both collapsed.

“Of course _you_ would be the one to land in deep water in armour,” Solas panted on his back beside her. She stared up at the swirling green clouds above them. Here, there was a strange, false sunlight that shined through, mixing with it like oily bile. 

“You didn’t?” she asked, twisting her head to look at him. He held his palms up, revealing deep gashes all along his hands, wrists, and forearms. 

“We landed on stone.” She sat up slowly and surveyed their surroundings then spotted a familiar landmark not too far from where they were. They were back at the graveyard. 

“The others?” she asked, reaching behind her to ensure Tahiel’s quiver was still intact. She was reassured when her fingers skimmed the bottom.

“Nearby. Dorian is tending to Yin as we speak,” he said, sitting up with a wince. “You aren’t hurt?”

“My head aches quite fiercely from that axe to the skull…but I think I am fine,” she said, taking one of his bleeding hands in hers. She undid her last health potion and curled his fingers around it. He shook his head slowly, a small smile pulling at his lips. “What?”

“You. That spell. It was clever,” he said, uncorking the vial. “You took initiative in that creature’s domain and saved us all.” She blew air noisily between her lips, frustrated.

“We worked _together,_ Solas. And had it not been for Yin, that Bull-demon would have butchered me,” she said. He uncorked the vial between forefinger and middle, gaze skimming across the waters before them.

“Perhaps, but you bought us time to react,” he said, swallowing the red liquid. Shouts from the area over caught Solas’ attention for a moment before he looked back at her. “Do not think I have forgotten the way you put yourself between me and the demon in the graveyard.” He offered her his newly healed hands with a smile. She rolled her eyes and allowed him to help her up. When they reunited with the others, Dorian’s eyes shone with gratitude and relief where he stood at Yin’s side. She was glad to see that the Mark had returned to normal, just as Solas had theorised. He looked a little worse for wear, but not nearly as ragged as he had in the nightmare. His eyes, however, were harrowed.

“I think the exit is just on the other side of those rocks,” Alistair said, nodding up the path just past the graveyard. “We scouted ahead a little ways after we killed those demons. It isn’t far.”

“Good. I think I have enough spite in me to fight that bloody demon,” Yin said. Despite the weakness attempting to crawl up her limbs, her fingers were twitching to take up magic and blade again. When they finally decided to move on—after a few minutes trying to recover their strength—it appeared that only her, Hawke, and Yin were itching for another fight. She couldn’t help but smile when they came upon a flooding overhang, where on the other side they glimpsed the final rift. _At last._

“There is your way out, Inquisitor! Get through and then slam it closed with all your strength,” Justinia said, flying past them to hover beside Yin. “That will banish the army of demons…and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.” _That is a lie and you know it,_ Maori thought at the spirit. 

“We’re almost there!” Hawke exclaimed, but then choked on her own words when something massive moved in through the jaundiced haze ahead. The other’s dismay was palpable as they laid eyes upon the behemoth Nightmare and a chitinous demon lurking just beneath it, like some demented mother hen and her chick. The golden spirit passed between them all and as she did her aura shined through their fear like a nimbus of pure sunshine in darkness.

“If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I’m sorry. I failed you too.’” The spirit flew right up to the demons, glowing so bright that they all were forced to look away as she sacrificed herself to weaken the Nightmare. Unfortunately, it only seemed to enrage it as the fear recovered with a headsplitting howl.

Alistair roared fiercely and charged down the hill, shield and sword raised defiantly. Cole followed closely with his daggers. Solas cast a thick barrier over her as she left his side, brandishing her staff and spirit blade. A storm of rock and green fire rained down on them from the bowels of the Fade, called by the aspect of the Nightmare. It conjured minions from beyond to meet them in the middle. She saw darkspawn, Dalish elves, spiders, templars, to name a few. Yin went straight for a Dalish hunter with a mighty roar of his own, while she was engaged by a red templar. 

“You are nothing, you cannot stand against me!” the demon’s voice rang out. She was surrounded before she could even kill the templar, forcing her to make a desperate move. Maori drew her magic around her like a cocoon, then purged herself down to less than a quarter of her dwindling reserves, trapping the magic within and filling it to the point of bursting. The templar and group of darkspawn surrounding her exploded into pink mist when she detonated the augmented Mind Blast. She dropped back behind a rock where Hawke covered her while she downed half of the last lyrium potion given to her by Solas. When her well began to refill, she jumped back in, fighting side by side with Vyr who was taking on a qunari. 

“The trick to fighting these grey bastards is just to run in circles until they’re out of breath!” Vyr laughed, bending backward as she dodged a blow to her head, countering it with an upward stroke of her sickled staff. 

“If you do that, you’ll draw the whole horde after you!” Maori said, sliding in front of the woman to block the qunari’s warhammer. Vyr delivered the final blow, eviscerating it and then imploding its head with blood magic. 

“I’ve already done that with an entire city of them!” the Champion cackled, running off to help Yin with the Dalish and spiders. Maori clambered up a large rock where she spotted Dorian fighting alone in a circle of humming necromantic magic. The aspect had focused on him for some reason and was trying to dispel his wards, raining down shards of pure Fade that Dorian was trying to counter with his own magic. Propelled through the air by her inverted Mind Blast, she flew at the creature, cutting one of its chitinous appendages off as she landed. It screamed in fury and teleported away to attack from afar.

“Are you okay?” she asked Dorian who had dropped his magic immediately after. He was panting hard, a sluggishly bleeding cut over his eye. He gave her a thumbs up and limped away, deciding to fight closer to Yin who was getting swarmed. 

“Maori, your left!” She heeded Solas’ shout barely in time to avoid a phantom of herself, attacking with a spear made of shadow. The spearhead grazed her neck in a follow up attack, slicing clean through the leather of her gorget. A fist connected with her helm next, knocking it off her head. Maordrid gasped as she tried to regain her footing, choosing instead to tumble into a backward somersault. She was surprised her brain hadn’t yet broken loose of its stem.

“You thought we forgot about you!” her phantom crooned. “Don’t worry, we were only waiting until you were weakened.” Maordrid growled, stepping through the Fade while simultaneously bringing her staff up and feinting to the right. The other woman’s breath was knocked out of her when it connected with her jaw. 

“The problem with pretending to be me is that I know my own weaknesses,” she hissed, striking again with her spirit blade and hitting air.

“I do too,” the thing sang from behind her. Maordrid felt the displacement in the air as it attempted to decapitate her, ducking just in time while spinning on the balls of her feet. She quickly assessed the battlefield, seeing that most of the others had taken to attacking the aspect at last. “Do not think that in defeating the pawn of Corypheus you will be free of Him.” 

“If you think I’m going to run off without meeting your master, you do not know me as well as you think!” Maordrid shouted as she caught the black spear in her right hand when the other woman attempted to run her through. She glimpsed her own fear-filled grey eyes as she cracked her head against the other’s nose with a satisfying _crunch_. The phantom stumbled back, laughing gleefully while clutching its gushing face. Maordrid spread the fingers of her left hand, summoning a static that buzzed like angry wasps along her arm. The magic accumulated between her fingers, growing, growing, until branches of thick lightning struck the ground around her. She charged the phantom with an electrified scream, swinging her arm and the ropes of pure energy. They wrapped around the creature’s entire body, causing it to seize up. It disappeared in a burst of black ashes, unable to maintain its form under such concentrated power.

Maordrid released her magic, tossing her head back to let loose an exhausted but victorious gasp, lungs burning with exertion. She sensed too late the fist that closed around her braid and yanked her head back, hyperextending her neck. 

“A fine rope from which my master will hang your head,” her lightning-scarred image jeered, reaching to its side to retrieve a blade. She heard Solas’ desperate shouts, rolling her eyes until she spotted him locked with a terror who was trying to wrest his staff away. A brilliant blue-white spell was forming at its tip as he fought to aim it at her image. Her enemy raised its own blade, but Maordrid was faster, reaching behind her own back and unsheathing her small dagger that she brought up in an arc, cutting her braid just above the fist that clenched it. She dropped awkwardly onto her back as Solas released a powerful spell that engulfed the scarred elf in thick ice. Maori wasted no time getting back to her feet, summoning the only other weapon she knew—a double headed battle axe that she swung around, bashing the frozen elf into black smoke. Then she ran after the tall demon giving Solas trouble, raising a ramp of ice that she vaulted off of with a battlecry, snapping its spine as she landed and using her downward momentum to cleave its head from its shoulders. She wrenched the axe from where it’d gotten lodged deep in its ribs, straightening and leaning back slightly as she caught her breath. She laughed at his bewildered look, which in turn provoked a small laugh of disbelief from him. Their mirth was cut short as a massive flaming rock came flying down from the arachnid demon at the edge of the lair, exploding on the ground between them. Maordrid was weightless for a few seconds before she hit the ground awkwardly and rolled, the air stolen from her lungs. She lay there dazed, wheezing as she struggled to draw breath again. Pain lanced up the arm without the bracer. She could feel precious seconds slipping away like sand as she lay there fighting against her own body. Through sheer spite, she forced herself to roll onto her uninjured side, sitting up and holding her bad arm close to her chest. She dragged herself over to Solas who was lying motionless a fair distance away. Her vision narrowed to a tunnel at the sight of blood on his face and on the ground around him. 

The whole lair around them shook with the enraged, defeated howls of the Nightmare’s aspect. She felt her pulse in her arm and throat—the fight was coming to an end. Her heart beat like a war drum—scared for him and for the future she was about to change. She had to face this foe, rise to its challenge. Kill or be killed. The prognosis was _very_ uncertain. Maordrid reached out with a hand shaking with adrenaline, cupping Solas’ cheek and turning his face to her. His eyes fluttered open at her touch. She gently brushed the blood from his brow, her relief coming out in form of a whimper. He’d a gash on his head and a wound in his thigh, but nothing life-threatening. 

“Close,” he coughed, smiling through the blood and grime, covering her hand with his. There were shouts from behind them. The way had been cleared—time to run.

She climbed unsteadily to her feet. “It’s not over yet.” She pulled him up by his arm, ignoring the pain in her own. As she was lifting her eyes to look at his face again, she caught sight of something lying on the ground by the remains of a demon. Tahiel’s quiver. The amplifier crystal was poking out of the top of it. She swung her gaze around, time slowing as she looked up the path where Dorian and Cole had reached the mouth of the rift. They were shouting at them, but she might as well have been underwater for all that she could hear. Without thinking, she let Solas grasp her hand, let him guide her toward the rift. If only running meant the end of their problems. _This is not your path._ She twisted and pulled her hand from from his grip. Solas turned back, lips parting as they formed around a question. 

“I have to go back—I forgot something. Don’t wait for me.”

“What do you mean? Maordrid, no!” he said, eyes widening in fear, fingers reaching for her wrist. She gave him a weak smile, feeling cold.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said, putting all that she had into the false reassurance. Then, reaching up she curled her hand around the nape of his neck and pulled him down, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Solas froze for all of one heartbeat, then his free hand was bracing beneath her jaw, the other arm snaking around her waist, drawing her into him as he returned it desperately. Four heartbeats, but she wanted them all. She ended it before her resolve could falter, shoving him away as she ran back down the gore-littered incline where Alistair, Hawke, and Yin were coming. Alistair was supporting the Inquisitor who was pressing a hand to a wound in his side. There was a gash across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His eyes were terribly bloodshot from some kind of trauma.

The quiver lay just beyond them.

“What are you _doing?!_ Wrong fucking way!” Vyr shrieked, and then  they were skidding and scrambling back as the air filled with the guttural noises of the Nightmare.

“Maker’s breath, how do we get by?” Alistair exclaimed as they retreated, eyes trained on the decaying, fleshly demon blocking their only way out.

“Go, I’ll cover you,” Vyr said, but then Alistair stared at her determinedly through his fear. Maordrid tore a strip of cloth from her shirt beneath her armour and bound the open wound on her right arm. With a small pulse of magic, she sensed a small fracture in the bone. It would be a difficult fight.

“No, you were right. The Wardens caused this mess. A Warden must—”

“A Warden must help them rebuild! That’s your fucking job, you cheese!” Vyr cried. Maordrid finished up, taking her staff into her left hand and stepping in front of them all, fire filling her chest.

“You are all getting out of here right now,” she ordered, looking each of them in the eyes. “ _All_ of you have a place in this fight--outside of the Fade.” Yin grabbed her wrist holding the staff, still covering his own wound with his right.

“Maordrid, _no_ , you can’t do this again,” he said, voice quavering. She yanked out of his grip, sliding on the commanding mask of Yrja.

“It isn’t up for debate. I am a whisper in the background—all three of you have voices they need to hear,” she said, steeling her voice. Yin caved beneath it, lips pressing together in a thin, focused line under his blood-flecked beard and green eyes smoldering like fired emeralds. He jerked his head to the others who were staring at her in stunned silence.

“I won’t forgive you for this,” he said, then leaned in and kissed her forehead. She smiled sadly and watched them run off. Maordrid glared up at the demon. _I should have taught Yin how to rain swords,_ she thought as she did exactly that, summoning a circle of ethereal swords that she willed through the air at the demon. Behind the molten white blades followed a barrage of corrupted ice, electricity, and fire at the eyes all over its surface. The magical blows shredded into its flesh, swords lodging in the entrails hanging from its maw where a Fade-warping howl of rage ripped from its core. The heroes made their escape as Nightmare charged after her, leaving the rift clear. She cast three ice and storm mines on the ground as she turned and fled, scooping up her quiver and Fade stepping into a griffon. Her wings carried her safely into the air where the arachnid couldn’t follow, much to its frustration. Below, it screamed and climbed after her, knocking columns of stone over like dried clay. She came to a landing on a large precipice overlooking a colossal statue of Andraste, stumbling out of her form in order to remove Tahiel’s spike from its quiver. With shaking hands, she plunged it into the boggy ground then blasted it with magic. The spike hummed as it activated and an iridescent bubble exploded outward. She looked down from her vantage point where she saw the frenzied demon searching for a way up. The entire precipice shook with its efforts to climb. She shot an experimental disc of ice down at the monster, watching with satisfaction as it popped one of its eyes and disappeared into its bulbous body, momentum aided by the amplifier.

“ _Do you really believe you can stop the inevitable, da’durnatha? That your foresight ensures you victory?”_ a new voice slithered through the Fade in archaic Elvhen. _I've been waiting for you,_ she thought, baring her teeth in a feral grin. “ _You may have snared the Dread Wolf’s heart, but even that is not enough. He destroys all that he touches—he will destroy you once he learns of your lies.”_ Maordrid laughed warmly.

“ _Are you saying you are not the one who will destroy me, then?”_ she said with mock curiosity, then continued hurling giant discs of razor sharp ice at the monster that had finally begun to climb, sinking armoured legs into the wall. A sinister laugh echoed around her, grating like the opening of a fissure in the earth. Her gaze flickered up toward the Black City, looming just above the rock where her companions had escaped. Tempting.

“ _I will do nothing. You will destroy yourself, as your kind did before. And when you are weakened, standing at the threshold of death, I will be there to claim you.”_ Maordrid cursed as a long, curved leg twice the size of her body scraped the top of the cliff before it gained purchase and began to haul itself up. She swung her spirit blade at the leg, cutting halfway through one, the blow jarring her arm painfully. The creature howled, leg recoiling as it lost its grip. Maordrid jumped back, snatching the amplifier up once more and shifting into a hawk. The monster screeched as she flew straight above it, attempting to knock her from the air with fleshy tendrils. As she rose into the sky, she stopped flapping her wings and let her body rise to the zenith of her flight, morphing into a griffon yet again, letting gravity take her back toward the monster. She tucked her wings against her body and raked her talons and claws along its surface, unleashing a column of electrified ice from her beak as she dropped. Eyes popped and flesh bubbled as she carved a jagged fissure down its back, then pushed off once again to find another safe spot.

“ _You have tried time and time again to enslave my mind. What makes you think you will be successful—ever?”_ she asked as her eyes landed upon a yawning abyss on the other side of the rock where the rift had been. An idea formed in her head and she went to land, shifting back into an elf. She sensed several presences in the Fade suddenly and she knew more demons were coming. They didn’t feel strong, but she was still only one elf.

Maori shoved the spike into some soft ground nearby and as soon as the field was back up, she clapped her hands together and let a beam of fire and ice penetrate the ground on the edge of the abyss, carving a deep fissure into it. She could hear the heavy Nightmare making its way back toward her, huge body dragging across stone and through water.

“ _Because like you, I have endured the ages. I have outlasted my brethren, as you have. I am forgotten in the shadows, like you,_ ” the voice whispered sounding as though it were walking just behind her. “ _Join me and we will strike in mastery. Oppose me, and I will turn to ashes all that you love, saving the Wolf for last. You will be mine eventually, little viper. Fen’harel has no claim to you like I do.”_ A half-circle of encroaching demons in the shapes of people she knew were blown back by her Mind Blast. A few went hurtling over the side of the cliff into the abyss from the force of it.

“ _You are right, no one has claim over me,_ ” she said, turning her beam of magic in a circle, obliterating most of the demons. If it hadn’t been for the amplifier, her magic wouldn’t be strong enough to fight now. She was tired. But if this thing beat her, how could she ever hope to triumph over the Evanuris? The Forgotten Ones? _You will be forced to become what you sought to destroy,_ a voice whispered in her head.

“Better the unimportant, expendable elf than anyone else!” she shouted at it. Maordrid downed the last of the lyrium potion on her belt, for once delighting in the painful tide of power that rushed through her blood. She directed her magic into the ground and _lifted,_ bellowing with the effort as she dislodged a massive rock. She hurled her trebuchet-sized earth at the Nightmare, watching it gain twice as much speed as it passed through the barrier. Tahiel’s weapon held true, making the otherwise simple attack much more devastating and shearing off the top of the demon like a volcano blowing its head. Green ichor and other demonic viscera sprayed from its wound, but it kept coming. She had a minute, maybe two tops.

A dull, familiar pain blossomed in her side suddenly and she craned her neck to see that she’d been stabbed by a thin blade wielded by an image of Yin. She dispatched him quickly with a blow of her own, then removed the blade with a gasp, quickly tightening the buckles on her armour to keep pressure on the wound. Then, dutifully she returned to weakening the ground, jaw set grimly. The rock shifted and groaned in response, but she did not grow hopeful.

Another wave of demons distracted her from her task, these ones hurling magic that she couldn’t just deflect with her blade. She fought within the dome, sustaining an Aegis while screaming at them to meet her challenge, wielding sword and staff in each hand. They came, struggling madly through the Aegis. Her screams became laced with real pain as she forced her right arm to work past the broken bone in tandem with her left. She sustained more cuts and a few more small, penetrating wounds—several from more images of Solas. She found them the most difficult to kill. But in the end she slaughtered them all. A mass of bodies formed a perimeter around the dome. She struggled to draw breath through the viscous saliva in her mouth and into her tired, burning lungs.

The creature that had been speaking to her had been silent all that time, which unnerved her. She wondered if it was going to show itself or if it was too prideful to do even that. It was likely the latter.

“ _I wonder why it is you fear revealing yourself to me. Would I recognise you?”_ she asked. “ _You seem bitter about Fen’harel._ ” She glanced around without moving her head, casting her aura out to search the area, licking her lips. Blood, dirt, and sweat. She spat, but it was so thick it landed on her armour. She’d lost her waterskin somewhere along the way. “ _No answer? Has he defeated you before?”_

There was a furious roar from behind her, to which she to spun around instinctively to face. The Nightmare had reached her unexpectedly quick, a grave miscalculation of her own. Maordrid fired a few more shots at its belly before snatching up the still-glowing crystal and abandoning her staff. The amplifier burned her hand like ice, but she didn’t let go as she retreated to the edge of the cliff. The demon advanced slowly, a spider sensing its prey’s fear and desperation. Maordrid thought she saw the outline of a shadowy figure in the mist, standing out on the precipice by Andraste’s supplicating form. She couldn’t worry about it as she reached the last of the solid ground. It shifted, cracking deep into the void behind her.

“ _What are you willing to sacrifice to protect him and the barren, miserable world you have come to love? What did they do to deserve your undying devotion? Surrender to me now and I will save you. I will elevate you to heights you could never have imagined.”_

Maordrid took one last breath filling her lungs with the putrid air.

She thought of Solas’ lips against hers. The taste of salt and fire on his tongue, a bitter apology on hers.

The warmth of his hand, his fingers curling under her jaw. 

Cesious, eternal eyes peering into hers.

She closed her eyes and fell into the embrace of the abyss as the stone precipice gave way beneath the demon’s weight.

Its anguished screeches echoed across the Fade as they fell.

_This is surrender._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting a new twist on the Fade Kiss. 
> 
> Excuse me while I hide in a dumpster.
> 
> da’durnatha=little snake


	65. The Stain of Guilt

Yin jumped from the final rift, keeping his legs even when they wanted to buckle and his eyes open even though the gash in his face throbbed and oozed. As Vyr and Alistair landed beside him, he turned back to the rift and waited for just a few seconds hoping that Maori had somehow found a way around the demon. Thirty seconds. A minute. 

Closing that rift—her tomb—was the hardest thing he had done to date and a shout of anguish escaped him. His Marked hand pulsated with pain afterward, enough that it felt like he’d stuck his entire arm in a bowl of lightning. All around the keep, the Inquisition soldiers cheered. Yin made eye contact with Solas and Dorian in the crowd, but didn’t give them any sign of his inner unrest. They had yet to figure out she was missing, judging by the hopeful looks on their faces. _Damn you, Maordrid._

“No demon army for Corypheus, it appears,” Alistair said, approaching him with a slight limp. Yin wasn’t feeling so good himself, but he knew business was long to be concluded here. “The Divine, or her spirit, was right. But you know that’s not how they see it and they just saw their Inquisitor work another miracle.”

“For now,” Hawke said, pushing through the crowd. “Until they decide you’re not useful anymore.”

“Perhaps there’ll be a time when the truth surfaces. Whether that’s sooner or later, at least they’re alive. Right now, I don’t care what stories they tell,” he told them.

“If they even believe that you escaped a giant spider demon,” Alistair mused, then grinned with a wince. “I know which story I’d prefer.” Hawke rolled her eyes.

“Can’t wait to see how that story changes. _No,_ it was a giant demon nug!” Vyr scoffed and spat blood from her mouth. “Oh! I think I lost a tooth.” 

“Inquisitor!” Yin turned to see a scout running through a hole in one of the walls. “The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori magister is unconscious but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself.” There were murmurs throughout the crowd. He heard the words _kill him now!_ more than once. “As for the Wardens, those who weren’t corrupted helped us fight the demons.” A man wearing a winged helm came marching up to him, pressing his fist to his chest. Yin regarded him with upraised eyebrows, lips turning downward. He was feeling very unpleasant thoughts toward them as of the moment.

“We stand ready to help make up for Clarel’s…tragic mistake,” the man said. _You blame her, but you would have followed her to the end,_ he thought with venom. Yin froze as Dorian and Solas pushed to the front of the crowd. 

“Where is she? Where is Maordrid?” Dorian demanded. Solas’ eyes were transfixed on the empty air behind him. He had seen their kiss. It made sense now—it had been her good bye. Somehow, she’d known. Yin saw a flicker of movement on the battlements and saw his sister appear with Cassandra. No, they were all there. Everyone looked at him expectantly. He hung his head. _I won’t forgive you_ , he’d said. _Brilliant last words, you selfish prick._

_Words. They want words._ “Maordrid…our Arcane Warrior, for those who don’t know…and my friend…” Yin started slowly, afraid that he might lose his composure. “She…stayed behind to draw the demon away so that we could escape. Maordrid sacrificed herself so that we might go on and save this world together. She gave herself entirely to our cause.” Below, Solas turned on his heel and weaved his way through the crowd. Dhrui buried her face in her hands, openly sobbing…and Dorian, his _vhenan_ , wouldn’t even look at him. Alistair and Hawke bent their heads in silence as well.

“Alistair, you’re the senior surviving Grey Warden, what do we do now?” the first Warden asked. He expected Alistair to answer, to say _anything—_ but the bloody man looked to him expectantly. 

“You and your men are still vulnerable to Corypheus, you cannot deny that critical flaw,” he said. “You’re looking to me to make this decision? No matter what I say, I’ll be looked at as a bad leader by someone. I hate to say this, after the help you have given, but I think you should all let the Inquisition handle this fight. I cannot risk Corypheus turning you against us in the future. Do what you will, otherwise.” Alistair nodded, smiling faintly. 

“As you wish,” the Hero said. Yin nodded curtly and stepped down as the crowd finally began to move. He walked up to Alistair before he could leave, calling out his name.

“You know I didn’t want to do that,” he told him. “I know you aren’t like them, but they aren’t like you.” 

“I understand, Inquisitor. And I’m sorry the Wardens failed—”

“I want you to join us at Skyhold,” Yin interjected. “You and Novferen single handedly took down an archdemon. I don’t need an entire army of Grey Wardens to help us in this fight. It only takes one to kill an archdemon.” Alistair blinked at him in surprise, looking around them at his retreating Wardens. “Your insight is valuable, Alistair.”

“With the others not welcome in the Inquisition, they will be returning to Weisshaupt…” he said. Hawke suddenly appeared, glancing between the two.

“Listen to him, Ali,” she said. “They’re all grown-ass adults, they can make their way there. If they absolutely need a leader, then write Nov and tell her to go whip their bums into shape.” The man sighed, shaking his head.

“This might not go over well with them, but…I’ll try, Inquisitor. Thank you,” he said with a pained bow. “Before I run off, I’m sorry about Maordrid. She was a brave woman.” Alistair left them in silence afterwards to go get his wounds treated. 

“What about you, Hawke?” he gritted out, holding his side. She grunted, scratching her head.

“Was hoping to see this through to the end, honestly,” she said. “Pissing shame Corypheus never showed up.” 

“I’d be happy to have you with us. Looks like Varric is itching to talk to you,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the dwarf hovering nearby. Vyr clapped him on the shoulder and went to join her friend. Blackwall approached him next, hand gripping the pommel of his sword and a stiff expression on his face. Yin tried to stand up straight but his body protested, so he settled with clearing his face of emotion.

“Inquisitor, I would stay, if you allow it, and continue our fight,” he said. Yin looked him up and down silently. He knew Dhrui had feelings for him, but he was just one more Warden prone to that corruption. On the other hand, the man hadn’t shown any signs of it. Yin gave a sigh.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said. “I already look like a fucking hypocrite and a terrible friend.”

“Perhaps, but you’re in a tough position. You’re doing what you can and I respect that, Inquisitor,” Blackwall said. Yin shrugged.

“Yeah, I just hope I don’t regret it later.” Blackwall bowed and left him. The last of his resolve seemed to go with the others. He barely made it to the healing area that had been hastily erected. As he was removing his armour to allow the healer access to his wound, his eyes found Dorian stalking toward him. “Before you say anything, I couldn’t stop her—”

“You couldn’t stop an elf that is literally light enough not to make footprints in snow?” Dorian hissed.

“Oh, you think throwing her over my shoulder and running off would have prevented her from getting what she wants? When has anyone ever kept her from doing what her mind was set on?” He hissed in pain as the healer cleaned his wound out and began sealing it with magic. “I’m sorry, _vhenan_ , there wasn’t any time to think it through. It all happened so fast.” _And that demon, it was in my head._ Dorian pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, shoulders set in a rigid line.

“I…I’m sorry as well, _amatus_ ,” he said. “You should see to your sister when you can. She’s not taking it well. Neither is Solas, but who knows if he’ll talk to anyone.” Yin held his hand up to the healer as she tried to mend his face wound with magic.

“Clean but don’t heal it. I…want the scar. To remember,” he told her. She inclined her head in acquiescence and continued treating him. Dorian helped him up after he was patched and stitched, then pointed him off in Dhrui’s direction. He saw Blackwall—and Cole—with her. His sister appeared to be listening to something the Warden was saying, so he decided to seek out his other friend. Finding Solas was always difficult to do when the man didn’t want to be found. He had an uncanny way of disappearing in a way similar to Cole. The keep was too vast to search, so he ended up waiting for the spirit to leave Dhrui’s side to ask for his help. The spirit directed him to a hidden area removed from the main courtyard that he wouldn’t have guessed to look. He found Solas in a vestibule that was caked in ice, sitting upon a fallen column in the shadows, head bowed. His staff was propped up against his shoulder as he leaned on his knees, hands clasped between them. Yin stopped only feet from him. 

“Solas.” His head raised slightly, just enough for Yin to see his eyes shining in the dark.

“Inquisitor,” he replied, his voice lacklustre. _Using the title. He’s closed off._ Yin sighed. 

“This is difficult for me too, and I know I don’t have any words you want to hear…so I won’t try,” he said. Solas didn’t answer. “How did she know?”

“Sorry?” he asked finally looking up. Yin squared his feet against the sudden urge to fidget.

“She kissed you like it was the last time she’d ever see you,” he said in a rush. “Unless you two were already…?” Solas shook his head.

“No. I was not expecting any of it,” he said. “She said she had forgotten something and ran back. And like a fool, I believed her.”

“I don’t understand. Why would she say that? Did she think you would stop her?” Yin stared through him, wracking his brains of the last few minutes they had spent together. Solas shrugged.

“I suppose we will never know,” he said, getting to his feet with a tired groan. “Was it pride? A sense of duty? Or was she so stubborn, so _damnably_ determined to fight that creature alone that she felt the need to—” Solas cut off and inhaled sharply, casting his hood up, adjusting his grip on his staff. _He’s broken. Damn it, how do I help everyone?_

“Don’t mourn alone, my friend,” Yin said. Solas’ grip tightened on the wood of his staff and his hood twitched down. Yin stepped forward and embraced the man. For a moment, Solas didn’t move, but then his arms folded around his back tightly. “We’re in this together, brother.” After a moment, he released his friend, hand resting on his shoulder. “I’d like to get out of here now. No use lingering in a place so saturated with bad memories.” Yin turned and made his way back into the courtyard where he announced that they would be leaving. It was quickly arranged that the inner circle would return to their waypoint camp in the canyon and continue on to Griffon Wing the following morning where they would decide their next steps.

That done, he steeled himself to face Dhrui. Between her and Solas, he feared them more than anyone. Solas was quiet in his ways, but his words and mannerisms cut like the sharpest of knives. Even after talking with him, he worried that Solas might blame him for what had happened and drift further away. And Dhrui, his sister, knew how to make him hurt better than anyone. Every day that he had spoken to her, all she had talked about was the older elf. She had cared immensely for Maordrid.

This time, Cassandra was with her in addition to Blackwall. The Seeker was helping her to saddle her Shamun, and was also first to spot him. She excused herself and walked up to him, dark eyes heavy with sorrow.

“Inquisitor—Yin,” Cass started, “Maordrid and I did not speak much…and perhaps I was…too judgemental of her for far too long, but I want you to know that I’m sorry. Everyone has been impacted on some level by her death. I just thought…tonight, when we stop, we should raise a toast for her. For all of the fallen.” Yin smiled weakly but his heart swelled for his friend.

“I think that’s a great idea,” he said thickly. Cassandra looked back at Dhrui who was staring over at them. The Seeker touched his arm as she passed him by. He caught Blackwall’s eye over Shamun’s saddle. The Warden nodded minutely and walked around the great beast, planting a kiss on Dhrui’s temple before leaving the way Cassandra had. Yin slowly walked his way over to his sister, twisting his hands together.

“Dhrui, I—” 

“Don’t, Yin,” she said, sliding her staff into a strap on Shamun’s back. “I’m angry. Gods, I am angry with that woman. That _snake._ ”

“I know,” he said.

“You should have let me come. I could have stopped her. I knew she was going to pull some stupid shit like that,” she muttered, yanking on another random strap. “Dorian and I made her _swear_ not to do anything like it again, but _noo_ , that’s her whole thing. She puts the Wardens to shame with that duty drivel.” Yin watched her in silence as she placed a hand against Shamun’s flank, anger and loss rolling off of her in waves. “I envy that you got the time you had to know her, brother.” She went quiet for a moment as she did when she was trying to compose herself. “I just want to get out of here.” He waited some more. There was always the climb and then her fall. As soon as she broke down into sobs, he gathered her into his arms, murmuring softly in Antivan, then in elven. He stood with her until her fully body heaves subsided into little hiccoughs. Then he helped her onto the nugalope and went to fetch his own mount, glad that the others had given them privacy. The two of them rode out of the gates and were joined by their friends outside. He broke apart briefly to speak to Commander Cullen about movements and came to an agreement that he would lead their forces to Griffon Wing where they would speak more in depth. He had a feeling Cullen was just another distraught over Maordrid’s loss and now that the battle was over didn’t feel the need to immediately discuss tactics. Yin was inclined to agree, for once sick of the constant managing of…well, everything.

__

And so the journey from Adamant was slow, unhurried. There was nowhere they had to be and each of them was exhausted, even the ones that hadn’t walked the Fade that night. The end was nary in sight. He hoped that Maori had met a swift, painless one. Ultimately, it had been her choice to go down fighting. It was the only way he could justify his own cowardice. But he knew her blood would stain his hands, like invisible _vallaslin_. A guilt he would carry until the end of his days. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why isn't there a *hug Solas* option?  
> They had time to integrate a *punch* option. Tell me how that's fair.  
>  _incoherent grumbling_


	66. Vara suin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new perspective _whaaaat?_

He reached the mouth of the rift with her still on his lips, but desperation on his mind. 

_Run, run, run, Dread Wolf. Run for your life._

He listened, like a coward. Spurred on by a sense of self preservation, by some foolish assurance that she would be behind him. No, she would come. She always came back. He stumbled into the Unmoving World, catching himself with his staff before he fell. People were running amok like a kicked anthill. A hand grabbed his sleeve, pulling him away from the rift.

“Where are the others?” Dorian asked him. Varric stood nearby with his crossbow, eyes locked on the emerald tear.

“They…they were behind me. Any second,” he replied, looking back. _No, don’t look. What if she isn’t there. What if—_

The Champion came next, much in the same manner as he had, but tripped and tumbled to the floor. Varric was at her side immediately, helping her up. They were all shoved out of the way by Wardens and Inquisition soldiers determined to stop whatever demons might emerge after them. When he finally managed to escape the excited crowd, Yin was standing at the rift with his hand upraised. It snapped shut, crackling like lightning in its throes of death.

He barely listened to the next exchange as his heart rose hopefully. He scanned the faces desperately. She was likely wounded, needing care immediately. He would heal her, take her into his arms—

“Maordrid…” the heaviness in Yin’s voice made his heart stutter painfully, but he forced himself to look up at the man. “Our Arcane Warrior, for those who don’t know…and my friend—”

_Stayed behind._ He turned, mind reeling. His feet carried him away.

_Stayed. She stayed. It was good bye. What have you done? You killed your hope. It is your fault again, Dread Wolf. She was more and you killed her._

He entered an empty vestibule and released a whirlwind of ice, the magic exploding from his body. He panted, breaths coming in clouds. _Calm_. Be calm, fool. He sat down on a column, clenching and unclenching his hands.

_I should have hunted it down. Torn its essence into nothing and cast it into the deepest reaches of the Fade. I should never have listened to her. You let her talk you down every time. She never planned to let you help. She would never let you take a blow for her. Where had such mettle come from? Like a guardian of Elvhenan, protecting her false god. No, she would never have protected one of them. She would have—_

“Solas.” He looked up slightly, startled. He had let his mind get away from him. _Quiet yourself_.

“Inquisitor.” _Yin. My friend. My last and only friend._

“This is difficult for me too, and I know I don’t have any words you want to hear…so I won’t try,” Yin said. But he wanted to hear his thoughts. He did. Yin, who was chipping away at the thick armour he had made. A different, newer lens through which to see this terrible, thieving world. Somehow, these people endured. “How did she know?” His brows furrowed.

“Sorry?” He finally met his gaze.

“She kissed you like it was the last time she’d ever see you,” he said bluntly. _Yes. And I would do it again a thousand more times—no. Stop._ “Unless you two were already…?” He shook his head, trying to dispel the conflicting feelings of disappointment. Confusion. Hurt. Loss.

“No. I was not expecting any of it,” he said truthfully. “She said she had forgotten something and ran back. And like a fool, I believed her.” 

“I don’t understand. Why would she say that? Did she think you would stop her?” Yin asked. _She was weakened, how did she think to stop the demon alone? Shapeshifting? Into what, a panther? A bird? Why, Maordrid?_

“I suppose we will never know,” he answered. “Was it pride? Or selflessness? Or was she so stubborn, so _damnably_ determined to fight that creature alone that she felt the need to—” Saying it made it worse. It made it real. 

“Don’t mourn alone, my friend,” Yin said. She had said something similar to him, about Wisdom. She had asked for stories, to help carry on the memory. She’d understood his pain as if it were her own. And now she was part of it. He felt his control waver—and then Yin was hugging him. A mountain crashed down on him in that moment. Emotions he had repressed for the greater good. A tear slid down his cheek, but he froze it—destroyed it, sending a warning to the others that threatened to follow. He could not succumb. Wouldn't. “We’re in this together, brother.” Yin pulled away, looking at him. This mortal man, resilient and thoughtful and pure of heart. Unafraid to show others what he felt. “I’d like to get out of here now. No use lingering in a place so saturated with bad memories.” His friend nodded to him and turned the other way, leaving him alone again. 

_Alone—the tomb you built for yourself_. _Alone, as you are used to._

He followed his friend. His only friend. Another friend he had condemned. 

  



	67. Blood and Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the bottom notes! <3

_Surrender. No, that is not in my blood._

Her eyes snapped open, watching the Nightmare falling above her. With her last bit of strength, she shifted. Flesh became feather and she spread her wings, a draft of wind catching beneath them as the Nightmare plummeted to its doom below, pushing her up and out of the fog in the abyss. She caught the crystal in her talons, barely.

Maordrid narrowly made it to the other side of the chasm, losing her form out of exhaustion. She caught the lip of stone with the tips of her fingers, then fumbled the crystal into her belt in order to free her right hand, the metal branding her flesh. With a ragged scream, she pulled herself up out of sheer spite for her weakness. When she crawled onto the solid, weeping ground, she tossed the amplifier down and collapsed to her knees, holding her arm to her chest.

The Fade was silent, save for the ever present whisper of memories too small to manifest into anything more. Above them rose the quiet laughter of a lone elf.

“You could kill me now,” she offered her hunter, removing her banged up flask with trembling hands. “Or did I weaken you, striking down your pet?” She laughed darkly to herself, drinking the vile alcohol. “Was it you that killed Hawke in the other timeline? Or did the Champion truly fall to the Nightmare?” Maordrid picked herself stiffly off the ground, body cold and riddled with bleeding wounds. She stooped to retrieve Tahiel’s crystal before shambling off in a random direction with no particular plan in mind. “What is it, exactly, that you plan on doing with me? I am one elf. I cannot even take form of a whole dragon yet. But be warned—when I can, I’ll be too strong for you to stop me. I will hunt _you_.” She thought of the woman she had seen hours earlier in Dirthamen’s temple. A version of herself that had taken on a godlike power and had twisted into something terrible. She continued talking aloud, “Nightmare showed me fears. Fears of the Elu’bel’s—Elgalas, Tahiel, Shiveren and Inaean, and so many others. _None of us will ever hold that much power. We must promise never to seek it,_ they said. Because they don’t trust themselves. They don’t _know_ their innermost selves. I do. And I am prepared to sacrifice.” A cry tore its way from her throat. “I will save them all. _Halam’shivanas._ Until the bitter, _bloody_ end!”

The Fade revealed a new path to her, this one led out into a sandy wasteland. Memories began appearing. Griffons wearing harnesses bearing the Grey Warden insignia flew in and out of existence through the air above her. On a dune to her right, she saw Grey Wardens charging a horde of darkspawn.

A single solitary spirit appeared some distance from her on the apex of a dune to the left, watching her. It seemed to be waiting, so she stopped. It turned and moved down the other side. Maordrid sighed heavily, wishing she hadn’t abandoned her staff back at the chasm. She was too drained to summon her spear.

It made for a slow climb up the shifting sands. 

At the top, she took deep, shuddering breaths through her aching lungs until she caught sight of the spirit again at the bottom. It lifted a thin, tapering limb and pointed to something in the distance. Her grey eyes slid along a vector path where they landed on a glowing green slit in the raw Fade a half-kilometer out.

“How do I get out of here,” she whispered, sand flooding her ripped boots as she slid down the tall dune. “I can’t open a rift.” At least, it appeared, there were no demons in the area anymore. Perhaps they had finally been stopped. With the Nightmare dead, its army had fled.

She sent a pulse of gratitude to the spirit as she passed it. It made a semblance of a bow and faded out of sight, unable to venture any closer to the tear. Maordrid finally reached it. Her body ached to sit down and rest, to gain back its strength. Or to die. She could potentially draw energy through the Fade to sustain herself, but even here she sensed the air was tainted. It would only make her sick and likely kill her faster.

“ _And here you stand, a knife balancing on its point.”_ The ancient presence had returned. But this time, she saw something on the other side of the rift - a black figure. She couldn’t see its face—just roiling shadow, pooling in the sand where feet should have been. It felt…watery. Weakened, perhaps.

“ _Here I am,_ ” she concurred, “ _Will you kill me now?”_ His laugh cut through her like a blade.

“ _Not this time. I think I will watch,”_ he said, _“I am patient. The seeds need time to grow. I will wait for you at the end of the world. You will bend your knee then.”_ It was gone before she could blink, leaving no trace that it had ever been.

_The crystal_ , a thready voice whispered from the sands. Maordrid looked down at the caged mineral in her hand. It wasn’t burning anymore, but its core still glowed brightly. She tossed it into the soft sand like a throwing dagger, resetting it with a thread of magic. The opalescent dome expanded stopping just shy of the rift.

“Yin uses the Mark to seal,” she said to herself, just to say something. She looked down at the soaked bandage on her right arm. Carefully, she untied the knot and removed it, examining the dark blood beneath. A source, a means to an end.

She closed her eyes and turned her gaze inward to her core—to the organ throbbing desperately beneath her ribs. She followed the path of blood through the main artery, following a branch beneath her clavicle and down her right arm, past the sluggish capillaries, and up into the veins where some were squeezing blood into an empty void. _There_. Her eyes snapped open, glowing red as she harnessed a dormant power in her own blood. With it came a wrenching pain, the power’s price. She directed it toward the rift, watching as a spray of blood passed through the dome and surrounded the rift in rings of deep garnet. The rift pulsed and green tendrils crept out of the sliver as if tasting the blood surrounding it. 

“Work, damn you!” she grunted, pulling her hands back as if gripping mooring lines. The rift shrank briefly, and then suddenly it exploded outward, paradoxically sucking in everything nearby. Maori abandoned the amplifier and ran at the tear with a scream, throwing herself through it just as her spell decayed and the blood dried up. The rift snapped closed.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Maordrid landed on her knees in cool sand with a muffled cry, the impact jarring every one of her injuries. Gritting her teeth, she held her left hand against the hot, wet wound in her side as she got back to her feet. The rift hadn’t closed completely behind her, and it continued to leak the molten green blood of the Fade onto the sand of the dune it floated above. She recognised her surroundings better now that she was back. She wasn’t far from the rock tower where her and Dhrui had stood the four hours or so before they’d entered the Fade. She could see the dark outline of its flat top, just barely poking above the sand. 

“ _Fenedhis,_ I’m back,” she laughed in disbelief, falling to her knees again. She laughed, then cast her head back, screaming up at the starry heavens. 

It only got better when her ears pricked up at alarmed shouts across a few dunes. Exhausted as she was, her sharp eyes still managed to pick out a group of people travelling on horseback toward the canyon. The front of the procession suddenly curved and then they were heading toward her—or rather, probably toward the green of the rift. Maordrid sat just to the side of the scar as they approached.

“Declare yourself!” an authoritative voice called out. Several staffs illuminated with magic and swords were loosened in their scabbards. Maordrid grinned at Yin Lavellan’s serious tone.

“Here to judge me, Inquisitor?” she called out, her voice hoarse and unrecognisable to her own ears. There was debate amongst the group before a handful unhorsed and approached cautiously.

“It’s another frigging demon? I thought we killed them all!” she heard Sera ask from behind. 

Yin, Dorian, and Iron Bull all stopped just paces below her, staring up in disbelief. Tears immediately welled up in Dorian’s eyes. 

“How is this possible,” Yin intoned. “Mother Mythal. Solas, get over here!” Yin ran hastily up the dune, slipping and sliding until he reached her, pausing just long enough to shut the rift above her. She wanted to laugh, but a pathetic groan came out instead. “Don’t die. Oh, Creators, Maker, _whatever_ , please don’t die.” He fell to his knees, ripping his helm off. 

“I’m glad you got that wound healed. I worried,” she croaked, squinting at him. “But why did you keep the face one?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Yin said, running a hand through his hair nervously. Maori cast her eyes down the dune as she saw the lithe figure of Solas climbing up, flinging his staff down at the base. 

“You came through the rift?” Yin asked, not even daring to touch her. She wondered how bad she looked. Normally he didn't hesitate to heal her wounds. Then again, she couldn’t feel much and her head was dangerously light.

“I used blood magic. I’m afraid I’m…completely drained otherwise,” she said, then fell silent when Solas finally reached them. “Hello,” she said to him. He was speechless, going to one knee before her. She wanted to smooth the distress from his brow and the corners of his eyes but her limbs were leaden.

“How?” His voice was a brittle whisper that added yet another wound to her bleeding spirit. 

“I think she’s dying,” Yin immediately said. “I don’t want to touch her.” Solas cast his aura across her, quickly picking out the wounds in her body. Then, he looped his arms beneath her knees and slid an arm behind her back, lifting her with ease. Yin followed close behind where she could see him just over Solas’ shoulder. 

“Need help, Solas?” Bull asked when they rushed past him and Dorian. She tried to reach out and touch the Altus, but her fingers didn’t even come close.

“No.” She felt his voice through his chest, strong and sure.

“Gods, is that Maori?” she heard Dhrui cry. No one answered as Solas reached Alas’nir. He carefully handed her over to Yin so he could climb onto the hart. 

“I’m not made of bloody glass,” Maori slurred, then ran her tongue along her teeth, wondering why they felt so numb. 

“Shut up, Maordrid,” Yin ordered as he transferred her back to Solas. “Should we meet you at Griffon Wing?” Solas’ arms closed around her as he took up his reins.

“Just to the canyon, I think. There is water, shelter. The Keep is too far for her to ride in this condition right now,” he said. 

“Very well. Ride safely,” Yin said, stepping away. Then they were off. Maordrid leaned back against Solas and cast her eyes to the stars. If his arms weren’t holding her in place, she was almost certain she would have floated away. The wind rushing against her body made her aware that the whole left side from her abdomen down was wet as though she’d been lying in a puddle. 

She wasn’t sure if she stayed conscious the whole time, but damn did she try. She didn’t want to show weakness around him. Yet, somehow they arrived at the canyon and she couldn’t recall having entered it. She supposed she should have been frightened at the prospect of dying, but it seemed that fear had fallen into the abyss with the Nightmare. Solas' hand at her shoulder made her aware that they had stopped. He slid off of his hart and helped her down. Though delirious, she did not fail to notice the tremor in his arms. 

“I will walk,” she protested when he tried to carry her again. “I made it this far.”

“Must you make things so difficult?” he snapped. She heard the hurt in his voice, but didn’t look up at him, focusing instead on forcing her legs to carry her to the water. She collapsed at the edge, but he caught her and eased her to the ground, then hurried over to the hidden supplies their group had left behind that day. When he came back, he had an armful of things her weary mind didn’t care to observe. She laid down at his order, staring up at the stars peeping through between the canyon’s narrow mouth. “Solas?”

“Yes? I am here.”

“The others,” she said slowly, pausing as he tore some linen into strips, “they are angry?”

“I cannot speak for them.” 

“But you can for yourself,” she said. He sighed, settling beside her on his knees.

“This is not the time to discuss such matters,” he said, hovering his hand over her abdomen. She clenched her jaw against her frustration. “You were stabbed. Many times.”

“The bad one—it’s from the one that wore Yin’s face,” she answered unbidden. “But, I saw everyone’s at some point.” He began unbuckling the straps of her armour, pulling it open and quickly applying a bulky square of dressing over the big wound. He guided her burned hand over it and had her hold it in place while he sifted through the supplies.

“Even mine?” he asked. He wasn’t looking at her when he asked. She was beginning to learn his tells. He asked because _he_ was afraid. 

“Everyone.” She watched his face break as he chose a tincture, but smoothed it out when he bent back over her. He removed the dressing and poured it onto her wound. Her vision blackened for a moment, a faint gasp escaping her as she struggled back to the surface. She woke to him leaning close to her face, fingers smoothing across her cheekbones. One of her hands gripped his wrist as panic wrapped around her chest like iron bands. She focused on the contact to anchor her in consciousness.

“Stay with me, just a little longer,” he soothed, releasing her fingers gently. “Talk to me, Maori.” His voice broke the vice holding her and suddenly her breaths came easier.

“I don’t fear you, Solas, don't worry,” she said, feeling like her filter had been damaged too. He hummed in answer, glancing at her as he set back to work. She saw something like anger in his eyes that quickly changed to hurt. _So he is angry at me._ “And I didn’t kill your images easily. I hesitated. Every. Time.”

“I can see that did you no favours,” he muttered, his face illuminating by light of his healing magic. “I have never taken you as someone particularly fearful. But _images_? You saw more than one of me, then?”

“Because you are my weakness…and my strength. It preyed on both,” she finally said after hesitating. “It played dirty.” She cut off as her body momentarily woke up and pain coursed through her, pulling a long groan from her throat until she was gasping for breath again. Black spots danced before her eyes. 

“Rest now. You’ve done enough,” she heard him say, and then she was fading away.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start posting every other day, I think. I can't sustain a daily posting since every chapter varies in length and I'll quickly run out of the material I've already written. I hope you understand. 
> 
> Also, I don't know if anyone is aware but I do have a Tumblr now. Might occasionally post snippets from future chapters? Idk. Come talk to me, if you like. 
> 
>  
> 
> <https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/>
> 
> And thank you so much for all your support and very kind comments, you're all such wonderful people. <3


	68. Two of Swords; Reversed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Upright: Difficult decisions, weighing up options, an impasse, avoidance]
> 
> {Reversed: Indecision, confusion, information overload}

It didn’t take long to reach the canyon. Everyone had agreed to the gallop, insisting even. The entire time, Yin couldn’t take his mind off of the unexpected. He was furious. Relieved. Perplexed. But ultimately, _she_ was heroic. Even Hawke wouldn’t shut up about how _impressed_ she was.

When they arrived at the waypoint, Solas had set out a few torches. He was sitting on a stone beside Maordrid who lay upon a bedroll, unconscious. He was just staring, completely in a different world.

The others hovered around, wanting to be useful in some way or pay their respects to Maori. When Yin managed to rouse Solas from his catatonic state, he learned that she was still wounded, but would recover if they were careful. Looking himself, Yin saw her entire torso was wrapped in bandages. Her nose, which he remembered being bloodied and broken before they’d left her in the Fade had been set but was swollen and red. Even with Solas’ healing expertise, he could see that she was pale and diaphoretic—not a good sign. He ended up making the decision to transport her to the Keep that night, or early in the morning. She needed rest and care that they couldn’t provide out there in the canyon.

With the clever minds of their group, they quickly constructed a stretcher made of the very limited materials they had. Iron Bull transferred her limp, pale form onto it, while it took six of them to hold it still enough to tie it between Alas’nir and Rasanor. The two harts’ gaits were the least jarring and could walk in near unison to one another and were content to follow Yin on his Pride of Arlathan, Narcissus. For the first hour of travel, no one talked, they barely breathed. Slowly, they all emerged from their heads like snails from their shells and spoke quietly amongst themselves of various things, including of her. But at the front where Maori lay, the few watching her remained silent. 

That atmosphere remained even when they reached Griffon Wing that morning, beating the sunrise. It took four of them to carry the litter up the steps, they were so exhausted. But it was Solas who transferred her to a cot and cleaned her wounds and dabbed the sweat from her forehead with a rag. Dhrui refused to sleep until Yin dragged her a cot up beside Maori’s. By then, morning had come, but the keep was silent with slumber. 

He sat down heavily beside Solas on the bench that had been set at her other side.

“She has the Dread Wolf’s own luck,” Yin said, wheezing a laugh. Solas shifted, leaning forward on his knees, eyes never leaving her still form.

“I do not think even he would have done what she had in that situation,” he murmured. The two were silent, just listening and watching. 

Yin pursed his lips after watching the other man twitch awake after dozing off. “You have to get some sleep, Solas. Maybe she’s in the Fade? Well. Dreaming. You know what I mean.” Solas nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling.

“Yes. I…I will do that.” Yin nodded and rose from the bench, running to grab a cot that he lifted and set perpendicular to Maordrid’s head.

“Sleep there. You don’t have to leave her side that way,” Yin said firmly. Solas smiled tiredly and with slow, aching movements removed his chest armour before dropping heavily onto the edge of the cot.

“Wake me…if anything happens,” the other elf said. Yin nodded. Solas hesitated, then finally reached out and touched a hand to Maordrid’s tangled hair. Then he lay down, asleep before his head hit the cot.

Yin resumed his vigil over all of them. He had too much to think about and none of it pleasant. The woman sleeping before him should have been dead, as much as he hated to think it. Hours ago they had all been mourning her, convinced of her end. Even though the Dreamer hadn’t vocalised it, Yin had taken Solas’ utter shock over Maordrid’s return as something that shouldn’t have been possible. After everything they had gone through in the Fade, none of the other mages in their party could have fought on for much longer without succumbing. All of it made sense and didn’t at the same time. She was terrifyingly formidable, something that she had established very early. But even he wasn’t sure he could have come out alive if he had been in her position. 

And yet everyone seemed content to ignore that. She was a hero and she had survived. Would it have been the same if Hawke had stayed? Or Alistair? Would he feel the same if one of them had returned from a certain death? _They_ were known heroes that had accomplished tasks that once been believed impossible. But heroes weren't born, they were made. 

Something just wasn’t settling right with him—it hadn’t since the demon had spoken to him. Maybe it was lack of sleep. _Yes. It must be that. Surely there’s an explanation for everything. Just have to be patient._

It was that thread of hope that he clung to for peace of mind.

  


  


\----------------------------------------

  


A day and a half later, Cullen arrived with their forces in tow. There wasn’t enough room in the keep to house everyone so a temporary military camp was set up outside the walls. They would be moving on in another day back to Skyhold or split off on different missions once more.

Yin had been busy alternating between sitting by Maordrid’s side and writing plenty of reports that had arrived from both Leliana and Josephine when Cullen joined him. The man had his own share of the letters to rifle through and for several hours they sat together in the ‘Command Tent’ at the top of the keep talking sparingly and reading.

“How is she doing?” Cullen asked during one of those few moments as he opened up another report. Yin tried not to sigh aloud. Gods, he was tired of it all. Tired and sad because even though his good friend had survived, there were dozens of good Inquisition men and women that hadn’t. He was working on a list of names of all that died, because whether he liked it or not, they had likely died with his name on their lips. He would memorise every name, in time. 

“She had a fever all of yesterday. I’m surprised Solas and Vivienne didn’t get into a mage duel over how best to treat it,” he said. “Vivienne didn’t see the issue with speeding up her body’s natural processes, since she was already in bad shape. Solas strongly disagreed…and then I had to step in before it got ugly.”

“What did you decide? Is she still feverish?” Cullen looked at him with a report in each hand. Yin shook his head.

“Thanks to my sister she isn’t. While we were all bickering, she slipped behind our backs and treated her with an old Dalish method she must’ve learned from our Keeper. Creators, the looks on Solas’ and Vivienne’s faces when Maori began improving.” Yin gave a small laugh, stamping a requisition with his fancy Inquisitor’s seal. “Of course, both insisted it had to have been because of something one of them did. Regardless of who did what, Maordrid is recovering quickly.”

“Good. That’s good,” Cullen said, his voice suddenly distant as he pored over a correspondence. “ _Maker,_ look at this! Leliana’s agents came through.” Yin sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. “I’d forgotten to mention this to you in passing, Inquisitor, what with all the chaos lately and I wanted to make absolutely sure this was a solid lead before bringing it up. I may have gotten carried away—”

“If you’re excited, I’m excited. It must be something big if you’ve had your nose to the grindstone…why would I disapprove?” Yin smirked and sat back in his chair, spreading his hands. Cullen chuckled almost boyishly.

“Around the time that you went looking for Maordrid at Therinfal Redoubt, I set about looking into the red lyrium that Samson and the red templars have been using to give them their inhuman strength and power. Eventually, Leliana’s agents intercepted red lyrium smuggler letters in the Emerald Graves. We looked into it and found out the location of the red templar’s _main supply_ of red lyrium. There’s a quarry in Sahrnia, apparently,” Cullen didn’t stop there, shaking the letter with excitement, “For a little while, we didn’t think we’d be able to get anywhere without you going in yourself. But, some daring agents of Leliana’s slipped into the quarry and got some intel for us. Letters and orders.” Yin’s smile disappeared.

“What did they find?” he asked. A grim expression crossed Cullen’s face.

“They’re growing red lyrium from people,” the Commander said. “And Samson is using it to power his _armour_. It’s madness.” Yin rocked onto the back legs of his chair as he thought.

“I see. Then, we need to disrupt the operation in the quarry and cut off his supply,” he said. Cullen nodded.

“There is that. But it doesn’t end there,” Cullen continued. “I wanted to look into a way to weaken Samson himself. So I spoke to Dagna before we left for Adamant about looking more into it. She said she would need resources—red lyrium, of course. We—as in Josephine and I—went ahead and gave her permission to utilise the Inquisition’s resources.”

“A wise decision,” Yin said, hoping for more uplifting news. He was always continuously impressed and grateful for his competent advisors. Cullen had really come through with his mission. “It looks like we need to decide what to go after next, then?” Cullen made a noncommittal sound, shuffling between papers on the table. 

“More or less. Dagna needs more detail on Samson’s armour—I just so happened to receive another piece of intel from the Sarhnia group. It mentioned a man named Maddox,” Cullen’s voice dropped into a perturbed tone. “It…is much more complicated than I could have predicted.”

“And…who is he?” Yin asked, settling back on the ground. Cullen looked at the chair legs in thought.  Oh, that’s probably driving him mad, he thought with amusement. He couldn’t help fidgeting when he was thinking.

“Maddox was a mage in Kirkwall’s Circle. Samson smuggled letters between him and his sweetheart,” Cullen recounted, fingers straightening the stack of papers. “Eventually Samson was caught—that’s why he was cast out of the Order. Maddox was made Tranquil, and became a skilled craftsman of magical items. Samson must have…rescued him.” Yin leaned forward, eyes widening.

“ _Mierde,_ he could be useful! If we could find him…convince him to join us—we’d have the perfect insight into Corypheus’ plans.” Cullen didn’t look as certain.

“I couldn’t say if that would work. I’ve lived around Tranquil most of my life, and I’ve never understood them. It seems Maddox built Samson’s armour for him, and maintains it still. Tranquil in Kirkwall needed rare and expensive supplies for their enchantments—supplies we can trace. I can have our men kick down some doors. Samson’s armour might lead us straight to his stronghold. _That_ is what I’m hoping for.” Yin nodded, pinching his bottom lip while he reorganised their missions along a timeline.

“One thing is for certain—Samson must fall. He’s like Corypheus’ guard dog. We need to take care of him first before someone gets bitten,” Yin said. “How long do you propose tracking down this Maddox and his supplies will take?” 

“You are headed to Val Royeaux after you are done here, are you not?” Yin stroked his beard, nodding. “Probably by the time you are finished there. I’ll have our people concentrate their efforts in figuring it out immediately.”

“Yes, and meanwhile I could send some of the others to Sahrnia to destroy that mine. Varric, Bull, Cole…and…damn, I’m going to have to pull Cassandra from my party going to Val Royeaux. They need someone to keep them focused. Varric knows about red lyrium, so I’ll put him in charge with Cass. He’ll hate it of course, but I know he hates red lyrium more,” he decided. Cullen hummed thoughtfully, rubbing at his own stubble as he studied the report.

“Perfect. Strike all at once,” Cullen said. “This will cripple Corypheus and Samson immensely.”

“Good. And if Dagna comes through with anything, be sure to write me. You’ll know where we’ll be,” Yin said. Cullen nodded dutifully and bent his head to write his reply. Yin finished his own paperwork and bade Cullen farewell as he set out to delegate the Sahrnia mission to the chosen few. 

He wondered if there were any telepathic mages out there that were getting tired of the internal screaming he had been doing since waking up in Haven. He wasn’t sure why he found the thought so funny, but it felt good to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote this weird ass Fade dream scene that doesn't fit because it ended up creating too much conflict with the plot. BUT I kind of like it? It's super short, purely a self-indulgent piece. Idk. I might post it on my Tumblr if anyone is interested. It wouldn't be 'canon' to the story though. :/
> 
> Oh! Also, if no one has read ["Paper and Steel"](http://blog.bioware.com/2015/04/30/short-story-paper-steel/) on Bioware's blog, DO IT. I hadn't known it existed until yesterday and I'm so glad I read it. I like Samson a whole lot more after reading it. I can't wait to bring him back into the story.bwahahaha


	69. Tel'rajane vir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:  
> Maori visits the headmaster's office.

Maori woke to someone pressing a cool rag to her forehead, gently calling her name. She’d a pounding headache and her mouth was parched. Yin smiled down at her when she found him with her grainy eyes. He reached down and grabbed something, then helped her lift her head as he brought a cup of water to her lips. When she’d drank enough, she lay back down, blinking rapidly.

“I did not think it was that bad,” she rasped. Yin made a noncommittal sound in his throat.

“You’re small. You had a lot of holes poked in you,” he said. “Thanks to Vivienne, Solas, and myself, you’re lucky you didn’t slip right back into the Beyond for good.”

“It is a record, though, right? I did not take a…month, or whatever, to get back this time,” she tried. He cracked a little, shaking his head with incredulity.

“Don’t make those sort of jokes around anyone else. I think most everyone has gotten over their sorrow. They’re angry now.” 

“And you?” she asked, grimacing as she strained to sit up. He helped her with a hand behind her back. She noticed that all the cots were empty.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you in the Fade,” he said. “It was a selfish thing of me to say. I didn’t want to be the one to tell Solas…or Dorian or Dhrui that you’d died saving us.”

“There is nothing to be forgiven,” she said, but he looked away. “How are they faring? The others?” Yin shrugged, bending to squeeze the rag into a bowl before bringing it up to wipe at the back of her neck. Someone had tied it up in a messy bun while she’d been out. 

“Well, predictably Dorian and Dhrui are still pissed. Dorian refused to sit in here at all. Dhrui fell asleep holding your hand the first night but then sided with Dorian,” Yin pursed his lips, tossing the rag back into the bowl. “I think he’s still mad at me. Thinks I could have kept you from doing this to yourself.” She nodded, swallowing thickly.

“And…Solas?” she asked, looking down at her feet.

“This is the first time he’s really left your side. I had to put on my mean Inquisitor face to get him to go rest and visit the waterfall,” he said. “A few of the others are out running various tasks in the desert. Expect a night of drinking for the fallen when they return. Tomorrow, we’re to head out to that Temple for Frederic and likely get out of this dreaded desert after.” She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, head feeling like it was full of fiery cotton. “Do you need help getting down to the spring?” 

“No. I think I need some time alone to sort things out,” she said. He nodded understanding and reached down by her cot, lifting his staff and handing it to her.

“Then at least take this for now. You look as steady as a newborn halla,” he said. She accepted it and took a step, testing out her strength. Her legs wobbled, but stayed.

“How long was I out for? I feel awful,” she said. Her right wrist was wrapped tightly, but she could feel a complex healing spell woven between it as it mended her bone. It was an ancient Elvhen technique. She wished she had learned healing magic. It had never come to her.

“It’s only been two days. And really, a lot of us came out with more wounds than we thought, too. You weren’t the only one,” he said, moving aside his cloak and shirt to reveal a thick bandage wrapped around his waist. She looked up at his face—the band of raw flesh across his cheeks and nose. It would form the same scar that Yin Lavellan of her timeline wore. She reached up and touched the flesh gingerly beneath it.

“I am sorry, Yin,” she said. He didn’t know it, but it was an apology for everything—past and future. His hand wrapped around her fingers as a sad smile graced his lips.

“Yeah. I have a feeling there will be a whole lot more sorry’s in the future…but right now I don’t care. You saved us,” he said, then lowered her hand to her side. “Can I ask you something? If you’re of mind to answer right now.” 

“Yes, of course,” she said. He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye.

“I got my memories back in the Fade, you know this,” he started and she nodded once. “Did you get anything back from that time? The Conclave? Do you remember how you got there?” _Ah._

“I was not as fortunate as you to have had those questions answered for me. It was the one thing the demon kept from me before it fell. It’s last act of defiance,” she said.

“I suppose it isn’t too terrible not to remember. Perhaps you had a spirit protecting you from utter decimation. After everything, I’m willing to believe…well, probably anything,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Regardless, anyone who might still be suspicious of your allegiances will be assuaged to know that none of us saw your face in my memories of the blast.” 

“They may think whatever they like. It’s your opinion I am concerned for,” she said. “I hope you know on who’s side I stand.” He smiled and nodded. 

“I do. Well. Get on with your bath. Don’t take too long down there or else people will think you’ve drowned and come looking for you. I mean, unless you’d like an audience.” She coughed painfully against a laugh and left him alone.

Below the keep, she found that the noisy caverns were empty. She stripped completely of her sweaty clothes, removing her bandages, and hobbled into the rippling waters, sitting in the shallows, not trusting her aching limbs to keep her afloat even though it was only up to her shoulders in the deepest part. She scooted down far enough to dip her head back and soak her hair, running scarred fingers through her tresses. She froze when she came to the ends of her hair, realising that it was shorter than she was used to. Well, still long, but no longer down to her waist. It hung just below her shoulderblades now. She wished she could cut it all off again, it was such a hazard in close combat. And cutting it short was too close to what she’d once had. She didn’t want to risk it.

Maori looked down at the half-healed wound in her side. Well. There were several, it appeared, but they were largely scabs now. It was unfortunate that healing could be just as damaging as not using it. It weakened the body and its immunity to fighting off infection when used consistently. It hadn’t been so bad back when the world had been one with the Fade, where disease had been near nonexistent. But now even as an immortal in this time she was not immune to everything. At least she had never minded scars. They had been few and rare amongst her kind. But as she began losing friends and people she’d considered family, she had chosen to collect them.

She sighed, mind wandering in all sorts of directions. The next one was wondering where the Inquisition would be heading next. Things within the Inquisition would slow down, then speed up, then slow down again. In each ebbing to come, her and her people would become more active as she came by free moments. Wherever they went next, she would have to find a way to contact her spies and see where Elgalas was with the Eluvians. If Inaean was to secure one of the plans, she needed access into the Crossroads so that she could get to the Vir Dirthara. The woman had been completely silent since their meeting in Haven, which either meant she had found another way into the Eluvians or she was getting into trouble on someone else’s mission. It was entirely possible that she had found one of the back entry points used by the Qunari in her timeline…but she wasn’t placing any bets. She had hopes that if they could even take control of the labyrinth that the Viddisala had taken, they might even be able to stop the Qunari from invading entirely. Or at least prevent them from attacking the south that way.

Then there was the matter of Mythal and how to go about approaching her. They knew next to nothing about her plans, but she had a feeling that the woman had sided with Solas, if only to exact her revenge through him on the Evanuris when they were freed. 

_I will think about her when I can turn into a dragon. She will hear me then._

Maordrid finished her bath and returned to the surface feeling much better. She realised she had woken later in the day as she ascended through the keep. The sky was blushing in hues of pinks and purples. At the top there was more activity as members of the inner circle began returning from their missions in the desert. Varric and Hawke were the first to appear, heads bent toward one another as they talked like two conspirators. When Hawke saw her, the woman threw her arms around her shoulders, hugging her tight, armour digging uncomfortably into her neck. Maori laughed and patted her on the back.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, elf. Some days it’s hard, but ultimately…it’s nice living.” The Champion saluted her and walked off. Varric looked after her fondly for a moment before nodding to Maori and going his own way, whistling brightly. 

She pressed a hand to her stomach as it growled offensively. Maori walked her way up through the courtyards where a couple of travelling merchants had set up selling various supplies. A few food items as well, but she was in search of a replacement flask. But before anything, she needed to reach her belongings. She’d hidden Varric’s transcript and a sum of gold beneath a floor stone at the top of the Keep before they had left to Adamant. 

Unfortunately, the rest of the inner circle was also there and any attempt to remove her things would certainly draw attention.

Iron Bull turned and threw his arms in the air, bellowing, “Mao!” She greeted him and the others with a smile and joined them, enduring various claps on the back and firm handshakes all around. Even a few Inquisition agents saluted her. She caught sight of Solas standing off to the side, leaning against the wall and watching her with dark eyes. She swallowed, meeting his gaze for a second before her attention was forced onto Sera who grabbed her around the neck and dug her knuckles into her skull. Maordrid groaned in pain as it put strain on the wounds in her back.

“Darling, has no one healed you today?” Vivienne asked, noting the way she was holding her back. 

“No, I…I am fine. Just sore,” she said, offering her a smile. The woman just raised a brow and glided her way from the crowd of loud warriors, rogues, and other mages. 

“So…does this mean we can drink?” Bull asked. “I heard there’s a dragon out there. We could get drunk off our asses and go hunt it!” 

“She’s just now recovering and you want to go get crisped by a dragon?” Alistair asked, coming up the stairs. He gave her a respectful nod and turned his eyes to Iron Bull. Alistair’s presence made her wonder what Yin had ended up deciding with the Grey Wardens. In the past, he had banished them—a bold move on his part. All she hoped was that they hadn’t been given free reign in the Inquisition, but at the same time, she also felt that someone needed to be keeping an eye on the Wardens to make sure they didn’t go kill off the last of the Slumbering Ones. _I’ve done so well with keeping the future in my favour, please don’t let things go wrong later._

“Gotta keep the body and skills oiled up for the next fight right, Mao?” Bull said, rolling his shoulders excitedly. 

“I would like to see the dragon,” she admitted. 

“That’s the spirit!” He raised a hand to slap her on the back again but then stopped mid-swing when she literally cringed and curled away from him. “Oh, sorry. Forgot.” As she was turning back, her eyes landed on Dhrui sitting in the shade of a tent canopy talking to Blackwall. She seemed to be enjoying their conversation, but kept glancing over at her. Her lips would twitch every time and then resume a bright smile for Blackwall. But the older man wasn’t stupid—he caught onto her distraction and cleared his throat.

“Good to see you up and walking, Maordrid,” he said as she joined them. “Dhrui?”

“Yeah, shut up, I’m going,” she muttered, getting to her feet. Blackwall laughed.

“Be easy on each other,” he chided, then departed. Dhrui narrowed her eyes at his back, then looked her up and down. Without a word, she took off down the stairs, not waiting.

“Hey! Be sure to get back here in time for the drinking later!” Bull shouted after them. Maordrid hurried after Dhrui, following her up a ladder and onto the battlements. The couple of watchmen standing post took one look at them and shuffled off quickly at Dhrui’s stormy look.

The Dalish mage immediately rounded on her, eyes like burning blood.

“You swore,” she hissed. “What point is there to any of this if you’re just going to run off and get yourself killed? You think Dorian and I can run the show alone?” Maordrid sighed, knowing this would be coming from Dorian as well and maybe even Solas judging by the expression he’d had.

“I had to,” she said, not reacting to Dhrui’s expected scoff.

“Oh? Did you? You couldn’t have let someone else take the fall? Like, say, that Grey Warden? He told us he offered to stay behind but you went after it like it was made of chocolate.” Maordrid rubbed her aching temples. The headache hadn’t gone away since she’d left the Fade.

“Both the Champion and the Warden are of more use out here than in there,” she said. “Last time, Hawke was the one to stay. Varric suspected it was because of some prophecy ‘Flemeth’ spouted at her years ago. And judging by what I know of Hawke, that woman reads deeply into things.” Maordrid went to look over the edge of the wall and across the sands into the Abyss. “Perhaps I did make a mistake, choosing to stand in for Hawke. It has likely changed the future in a way I cannot predict. Regardless, I had to face it. I had to see what I am up against.” Dhrui watched her, lips parted and hair swaying gently in the wind. 

“And what are you up against that we couldn’t have helped you with?” Dhrui asked. “Some more secretive stuff that you can’t trust us with? You know, of all the gods _you_ could be friends with, the Dalish version of Fen’harel makes the most sense for you. Or yet, if he was a woman, I’d be looking at you.” Maordrid turned to her, feeling a mixture of emotions.

“Is that an insult?” she asked in a nigh whisper. Dhrui glowered, stepping closer so that she was nearly face to face with her.

“You’re a trickster and a liar. You make promises and then do your damnedest to find a way around them.” Maordrid looked away again, closing her eyes and pressing her lips together. “Are you going to explain _anything_? Or are you just going to keep feeling sorry for yourself?” Maordrid kept her composure, as much as she wanted to do otherwise. She knew she deserved their ire.

“Elgalas was right. I woke something powerful, coming to this timeline. And it is out there in the deep Fade regathering its strength.” Beyond the walls, an eerie wailing rose from the Abyssal Reach. “I believe it is someone mimicking the powers of Dumat and perhaps another so-called Old God. He—or it thinks I have some hidden power that he could potentially use against the world—”

“You faced it _knowing_ this?” Dhrui asked, stepping back. “ _You didn’t kill it,_ you just escaped it! So what…is it just going to come back and get you later?” Maordrid didn’t answer. _At the end of the world._ Whatever that meant. “And then what, it would use you to kill everyone else?” Maordrid just sighed. There was no reasoning with her when she was angry like this. “Don’t go silent on me now. You said Old God—why didn’t you tell me or Dorian? Especially the Vint? He is literally borne of the land where they worshipped those things. And—And Solas! He’s Somniari, Maordrid. He wants to help you and you won’t let him. Gods, I cannot even understand your thinking right now.” The woman stomped away and slumped against the parapet, fuming in silence. 

“Are you done?” she risked asking. Dhrui sniffed, shrugging.

“I want answers.” Maordrid just shook her head behind her back. “Fine. I’ll just have to ask Dorian if he knows anything.”

“Do as you will,” she mused, tossing a hand. Dhrui didn’t answer this time, smiling to herself. For once, she was frustrated. “I do not know what I can even tell you, Dhrui—”

“I want to know that you will actually let me stand at your side when you go out to fight these battles. That you will bloody trust me. If you had just told me what you planned to do, I would have defied my brother. You’re my family too, now.” Maordrid’s shell cracked. “And I’m going to take care of you. You might not like how I go about doing it, but that’s how family is.” Dhrui looked up at her, eyes gleaming bright. 

“Does this mean you are still mad at me?” Maori asked. Dhrui snorted.

“For now,” she mumbled. “I’ll have my reckoning though, don’t worry, _sister_.” Maordrid didn’t like the tone in her voice, but found they were out of time when Bull came calling for them. His head appeared above one of the ladders.

“You two ready for a couple drinks?” he paused, looking suspiciously between them. “Unless you’re gonna duck out like last time Mao. Yeah, I saw you slip away with Cullen after just a cup of ale. You’re not getting out of it this time.” 

“Don’t worry. I will drink,” she said, then turned briefly to Dhrui. “Are you coming?” The girl got to her feet begrudgingly and joined them, still sulking. 

They were greeted by the sight of mead kegs and a desert beast roasting on a spit. Blackwall and Varric, their camp cooks, had worked together to make a camp feast. Roasted potatoes, carrots, a mysterious gravy, and juicy meat.

It didn’t take long for people to start relaxing. She forced herself to loosen the reins for their sake and drank three or four small cups of mead though she wanted to swallow an entire keg. She perched on an empty barrel by the fire and watched her company with a little smile, holding her pipe in one hand. There was Varric and Hawke retelling stories of their strange adventures at the centre, both of whom were already too ahead in their drinks and trying to talk over each other. Hawke was very expressive and gesticulated quite a bit when she was drunk. Varric mostly translated for her when she became incomprehensible at times. Cassandra was perhaps the most rapt of the audience, being a fan of Varric’s stories and all. She was clearly trying to hide the fact that she was drunk, but the Seeker’s unbridled expressions exposed her. Dhrui, Yin, Dorian, and Blackwall all sat together spectating and making their own commentary to the dwarf and Champion. Alistair was playing a game of chess to the side with Bull and Cole was sitting between them talking about how the game pieces felt. Maori hardly paid attention to Sera or Vivienne, but neither were present at the moment. Well, she hadn’t been paying much attention to anyone except for the bald elf seated across the fire from her. They’d been exchanging glances on and off since they’d returned…and neither had been particularly subtle about it. He at least was able to disguise his glances behind the pretense of sketching something in the journal on his lap--though to be fair, he might have actually been doing something in it. She had nothing to hide behind. Emboldened by alcohol, she didn't care to and eventually she caught and held his gaze, daring him to look away. Over the lashing tongues of flame, the shadows at his mouth shifted around a smirk. He leaned back in his chair, obscuring the top half of his face in darkness. She lost his eyes, but those lips widened to bare a sliver of teeth. _Fine. You win this time,_ she thought begrudgingly as she took a drink from her flask, glaring into the shadows. 

Over the yelling and laughter, she suddenly picked up Yin gossiping with his sister and she tore her eyes away from Solas. The two Lavellans only giggled and raised their brows at her gaze, pointing under their legs toward Solas. Eventually, she gave up and got to her feet, sticking her pipe between her teeth and sauntering off with her battered flask in one hand. Bull glanced up at her as she passed him and Alistair, raising his cup to her. She clinked her flask against his and slipped away from the group, making her way to the second-level courtyard, taking a left below the battlements where there was a perfect balcony overlooking the Abyssal Reach. In no great hurry, she prepared her pipe with Yuko’s mix and lit it with a flick of her finger, leaning against one of the peaked stone merlons protruding from the edge, facing the way she had come.

She did not have to wait very long for Solas to arrive, though he paused beneath the bridge when he saw that she was expecting him. He held a cup between his own hands as he joined her. She looked at him, letting silver smoke pour from her mouth into the still desert air. His eyes fell to her lips. She just smiled and held the pipe out to him. Wordlessly, he set down his cup and accepted it, brushing her fingers as he did. It was her turn to watch shamelessly as he lit the bowl with a small flame, its light momentarily illuminating the sharp planes of his face. He inhaled and tilted his head toward the moon as he exhaled the smoke. _How does he turn everything into a work of art?_ She gave herself a sound mental slap to the face.

“You are an anomaly,” he finally said, leaning against the opposite merlon, examining the carvings in the pipe. “Your survival of Haven had been believed by others as highly unlikely, but not impossible. Surviving that demon and escaping the Fade? It should have been impossible.”

“Not even a slight chance?” she remarked. He tilted his head to the side, peering at her as if he was trying to solve a particularly challenging puzzle. “You are not wrong. If you had not been on the other side of that rift when I emerged, I would have died of my wounds.”

“That I can agree with,” he said, then tapped his fingers in sequence along her pipe, not looking at her. “You have not told anyone how you escaped or what became of the demon.” 

“A spirit directed me to the rift where you found me. By that time, the only magic I had left was in my own blood. The rift nearly cut me in half coming through.” He nodded slowly, understanding.

“The blood magic would explain why you also went into shock,” he murmured. 

“As for the Nightmare, it fell to its death. Well, hopefully,” she said. “After you had all escaped, however, the real threat made itself known.” Solas pierced her with his gaze.

“The creature hunting you? You saw it?” She shook her head, troubled.

“A shadow of it only. I believe it had direct ties to the Nightmare. Once it was gone, it could only spout promises to claim me later. Whatever or whoever it is, it is gone for now. With the Breach closed and Nightmare banished, it has lost two major wells of power.”

“The question still begs _why_ it came after you and not someone else within the Inquisition. Or even someone outside of the organisation itself,” he said in a neutral voice. He was fishing and she knew it. _He is not without his own suspicions…but what can he do about it? It’s a dirty game of chess where only I can see his next moves. One order from me to my people and—what is wrong with me? Their suspicion is getting to you so badly? This is how one slips up._

“The Inquisition is powerful—why not us? But you wonder, why not Yin? Maybe yourself, another powerful Somniari?” she said, raising a brow. “I am neither marked nor am I a particularly powerful Dreamer. At Haven, I challenged Corypheus at Haven and failed, then I narrowly escaped imprisonment beneath his General. If it has been watching me since the beginning, then I am certain it watched Samson’s torture tactics, then with the Nightmare, learned of my fears. In its eyes, I am a chink in the Inquisition’s armour. A decent tactic, letting others do the work for you and striking when no one expects it.”

“If it is as powerful as I think it is…enslaving your mind would rival even Corypheus' strength, with the exception of his control over the Blight,” he said, running his thumb along the bottom of his lip. “It tried to accomplish such with the red lyrium in your dream.” She nodded.

“Red lyrium _vallaslin_ ,” she said. His eyes widened in horror. “I recognised the ritual from memories I have seen in the Fade. Whatever it intended, its plans have been foiled and it has lost all of its strength. I am free.” _For now._

“You are not a weak mage. Quite the contrary. It will have learned that lesson after its defeat, if it is smart,” he said. 

“I am just clever with my abilities,” she deflected. He hummed, smirking slightly, still in thought. 

“Speaking of…you tricked me,” he said in a way that twisted her entrails unpleasantly. She looked away from him, pained. 

“I did not know if you would have left me otherwise,” she said. “I am sorry for the kiss. I had thought…if I died…you should know I had thought of you in my final moments.” She tried not to recoil when his hand took hers gently.

“For all that I have lost and the misfortune that has befallen us, that is not something I regret. Nor will I ever,” he said, setting her pipe on the stone so he could bring his other hand to her face. His fingers brushed the skin beneath her cheekbone before he dropped both hands with a crestfallen look. “But pursuing this…it could be dangerous for both of us.” _It already is. It always will be. I will do whatever it takes to save you from a terrible fate. No matter what, I will love you even if you come to believe I stand on the other side of the battlefield. There is no use denying that truth anymore._

“There are many paths. Paths eventually come to an end,” she said, looking to the sands, “We walk upon the same for now. There can be no telling where we will be after, but I cannot see my path ever straying far from yours.” There, he was smiling again.

“Somehow, I sense that you may be right. At lease in some measure,” he said, then sighed, shaking his head. “I will not deny that losing you would…” He trailed off, turning away from her. She didn’t need to look at his face to know that he was feeling the same turmoil as she. 

“Perhaps…we should both think about what this means. What we want,” she said faintly. _But what you want is far from wise._

“I—yes. Time, for both of us. There are…considerations,” he said, eyes distant. “If you are willing.”

“Y-Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I am going to tell the others I am turning in for the night. I am weary.” He nodded curtly and she departed slowly in a cloud of conflict. She knew that no matter how much her feelings changed it would not alter her plan in any way. It could not. She bit her lip, hard. If any of her people found out, even if Tahiel had suggested something like it, they might respond poorly—at the worst, they would change all the locks on the doors, so to speak. At best, they would see it as part of the ploy to gain his trust. _They_ being Elgalas and potentially Tahiel himself and whoever supported them. She shook her head— _you are still their greatest asset. You have more support within the Elu’bel than Elgalas or anyone. Is falling for him truly the most difficult challenge you face? Nothing has stopped you this far._ _After all…you enjoy a challenge._

She paused just on the other side of the bridge and looked back. He was staring up at the stars, hands clasped behind his back. It may have been a trick of the moonlight, but she swore there was a smile upon his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @03:00 am  
> *me writing a meaningful scene between two characters in the future*  
> Brain: _psst, you know how you should end this?_  
>  me: Yes, I do. Pls let me finish before--  
> brain: _\--if it ended in smut._  
>  me: No! That won't even work here--  
> brain: **Smut.**  
>  me: ok.  
> jfc.  
> (btw there is some extra ~~scenes~~ trash that will be going into the fragments/echoes LOL) i'm losin' it


	70. Traps and Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter theme song anyone?](https://youtu.be/irAd3IaSV2s) For dragons, of course. It's not Dragon Age, but it _is_ the Witcher. And I hold that as close to my heart as DA. :3

She rose the next morning, her body feeling marginally better than it had the day before. Maori sneaked out of the barracks when she saw that every cot was still occupied with slumbering forms. It was before dawn and they planned on luring the dragon for Frederic—and exploring the temple the same day—before making their way to Val Royeaux to prepare for what came next. Josephine had still not come through with news of when the ball was taking place, but Maordrid imagined it wouldn’t be long, if the timeline stayed the same. She needed to look through the transcript to plan her own next steps and find out the status on the Eluvians immediately. She had plans if Elgalas and Inaean failed.

There was no one at the top of the keep since the scouts had all been posted along the battlements below. Nevertheless, she cast her gaze about the area and made sure it was utterly clear before hurrying over to the flagstone, lifting it up with the blade from her boot. She slid it aside and reached in, brushing away the dirt she had thrown over the cloth covering the book—

It was gone. 

She froze, hand curled like a talon as she looked wide-eyed into the hole. She pawed the cloth away, that _empty_ , _filthy_ cloth. She dug deeper—maybe…? No, it was gone and someone had taken it. Maordrid stumbled to her feet, moving the flagstone back into place. She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes glazing over as a net of suspicion was cast over everything and everyone. 

_Anyone_ could have taken it. But she had ensured that it did not stick out anymore than the other stones, casting dirt around it and tucking it into the seams to prevent it from moving if stepped on. 

_The one fucking time I don’t use a ward,_ she thought with growing hatred for herself. Someone had watched her place it—they had come, taken it, and put everything back _exactly_ the way that she had left it. Not a soldier, surely. No. 

She paced.

Then she was running back down the steps. _I will tear this keep stone from stone to find it._

 _But it is already likely too late. It has been three days since you were asleep—four since you left to Adamant. It could have been gone all this time._ She stopped at the mouth of the barracks, blind. 

“You’re up early. Feeling better, I take it?” Her eyes ravaged Yin like daggers. _Him? Could it be? No. He is emotional—he would have already said something._

_Or would he? He was a spy before the Conclave, just like you._

“Maori?” he asked.

“Sorry. Yes, I feel better,” she answered, brushing her hand of dirt on her thigh nonchalantly. He laughed.

“Well enough to…potentially fight a dragon today?” he asked. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I mean, unless you don’t want to. How’s your wrist?” 

“Well enough to protect you if she attacks,” she said. “Who will be coming with us?” 

“Dorian, Bull…” he paused, “Solas.” She didn’t flinch.

“You will be fighting _dirth’ena enasalin_? Against a dragon?” she realised.

“I survived the Fade!” he protested. “With you at my back, I’ll be fine. Bull and I got the offence, you, Dorian, and Sol at the edges. There’s a chance nothing will happen and your dragon friend won’t have to die!” She rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. “Now go get into your armour, we’re going out after I wake them up.” She made a small, desperate noise in her throat after he had gone. _The transcript. I have to find it before we leave._ Maori took the long way to her spot in the corner, eyes subtly searching beneath cots and packs as people stirred. Nothing. No sign of it anywhere. But the keep was wide and it _could_ be anywhere. She stood angrily before her own bed after throwing her armour down onto it. With jerky movements, she grabbed her chestpiece, fumbling, then dropped it. _Pull yourself together, fool,_ she snarled to herself. As she was struggling to put on the mail and plate, she felt it suddenly get easier and realised someone was standing behind her.

“Let me help,” Solas murmured, moving her braid over her shoulder. His fingers brushed her neck, causing her to shudder despite the anger burning just under her skin. In a minute, she was all geared in, pulling on her gauntlets as the final touch. She turned to him after she was done and saw that he was already outfitted.

“I would have offered to return the gesture, but it seems you are more efficient than I am this morning,” she said. He smiled distractingly.

“Would you like to get breakfast?” he offered. She raised a brow. “There is no reason we should be distant while we contemplate our feelings.” He was right and she was an idiot again. Romantic feelings aside, he was a dear friend whose company she desired above all. _But that thrice-cursed transcript._ She screamed internally, torn. _If someone has it, maybe they’ll be shifty. I will find the rat._

“I would love to,” she said, giving him her best smile. He returned it and gestured for her to go first. They walked side by side to the top and she listened as he came up with a strategy for the instance that things went sour with the dragon. He seemed to want to combine magics to achieve the best protection for Yin and Bull.

“Can you potentially cast a Fade Cloak over multiple people if we combine our will? You could hide us if things get out of hand. Also, with a boost to your mana, you may be able to expand your disruption field to slow the dragon,” he was saying as they weaved their way between companions toward the food stores. 

“The theory is sound, but you are not used to the demands of casting such spells as I am,” she said. “You will tire quickly and then I will be left to shield them.” _I’m going to have to interrogate Dorian and Dhrui. This will not be fun,_ she thought as the others began filtering in. “Yet, I am willing to try it. Do not be mad when I have to throw you over my shoulders because you are too tired after the fight.” He snorted, grabbing a couple of apples from a barrel and tossing one to her.

“The top of your head barely grazes my chin, I would like to see you try,” he said, biting into his fruit. 

“Mm. You will regret that.” She winked at him and walked away, beelining a path to Dhrui who was tucking into a bowl of boiled oats and apples. There was no sign of the book on her person, but Maordrid had yet to check her pack. She dug her foot beneath Dhrui’s worn leather rucksack and kicked it up to her hands, wrenching it open.

“If you’re looking for fucks to give, I’m afraid I’m fresh out,” Dhrui mused. Maordrid dropped it when she’d determined it was clean.

“It’s gone,” she whispered. “My book.” Dhrui’s face paled and she immediately got off her stool but walked casually away from the accumulating group.

“How?” Dhrui asked. “That’s…that’s really not good.” Maordrid shook her head, taking a bite of her apple. It tasted like wet ash.

“I would ask Dorian too, but he is still avoiding me,” she said. “I would turn this whole keep upside down if I was not about to go out.”

“Is that an assignment, _hahren_?” Dhrui asked. Maordrid nodded sharply. “Do you want to pat down Solas or should I?” Maordrid narrowed her eyes.

“This is serious. If it falls into the wrong hands you have _no_ idea what it could cost us,” she hissed. Dhrui finally simmered down some and nodded.

“I promise I’ll do my best. You can count on me,” she said.

“Good,” Maordrid said as they looped back to the group. She eyed Dorian standing with his breakfast near Yin and tried to think of a way to get him alone. But it was not to be, as the Inquisitor called his group together for the mission. They wouldn’t be coming back to Griffon Wing. The rest of the circle would depart a little later in order to meet up with them to exchange members. Bull for Dhrui so that they could amble their bloody way to Val Royeaux for ‘shopping’ for an event no one even knew the date of.

In short, panic was beginning to set in.

Minutes later, they had packed away their belongings on their respective mounts and were leaving the Keep. 

“So, Mao,” Bull said from his Gwaren Land-Hammer. “Gonna watch me kill a dragon?” 

“Not with any pleasure,” she said in a dull voice.

“I’ll make a believer out of you yet,” he said. “By the way, when are you gonna tell us how you escaped the Fade? That’s like, what, twice now?”

“You know that this was the second time?” she asked.

“I’m a spy, remember?” _Yes. I do._ “But also, it’s kinda a rumour at Skyhold. You’d think more people would be talking about it, but you’re a weird one. So? How’d you do it?”

“With the aid of demons and blood magic, of course,” she said, perfectly neutral. “Wouldn’t you know that if you had delved into the gossip?”

“You don’t come across to me as someone who’d use that sort of shit,” Bull said. 

“Oh? Is this where you read my character? What do you see, Iron Bull?” she mused. Bull just looked ahead as he rode, scarred mouth pulled up in a sort of grin.

“You’re a storm in a teacup,” he said. “Barely containing it. I can see you pack a lot of power but you’re holding back. I saw you fighting on the battlements at Adamant—you try to control the field, always aware of everyone’s location. You do the same thing even when you’re not fighting.”

“Your point?” she asked.

“My point is, just about everyone gives it their all. Tevinter mages I fought in Seheron tried to scare us with what they could do. Dorian looks like he’s waiting for applause after every spell and the Boss even manages to put little flourishes into his magic to dazzle his enemies. Viv has this confident swagger…”

“As any good mage would,” Dorian said from ahead. 

“But then there’s Solas…and you. He’s quiet, no bright flashes or frills to give him away. He’s deadly.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Solas interjected lightly. 

Bull continued, “With you two out on the field, the targets all start jumping at their own shadows, unsure where to look for the next attack, almost as efficient as our rogues. Alone, you’re something else—goin’ back to that storm in a teacup thing. I’ve seen _something_ escape through once or twice—like that slaughter you left in the forest outside Therinfal. There’s a trigger that leads to a deadly trap and I haven’t spotted it yet.”

“Then perhaps you should not keep searching for it. You’ve one eye, after all, it would be unfortunate if you lost the other.” He growled lowly, but it sounded more amused than anything.

“I’ll pin you down soon,” he said. “Maybe that’s what you need. A good pinning.” 

“What, no whisky beforehand? Do you take me for one of your swooning barmaids? No, Iron Bull, you will have to try harder than flexing your muscles to get me in bed.” She noticed Yin’s shoulders shaking with laughter. Solas’ jaw was set, knuckles white at his reins. _Interesting._ “The only ‘pinning’ that will be happening will be in a sparring ring.” Bull laughed uproariously.

“Teacup, you’re just gonna end up hurt like you always do,” he said, wiping away a false tear. “I’ll keep the whisky in mind, though. I’ve broken women like you before. Hard on the outside but with a soft centre that melts on the tongue.” 

“I don’t think Cassandra would appreciate you talking about her like that,” she said and this time Yin didn’t hold back his laughter. Even Dorian glanced back with a thin smile. Meanwhile, she noticed Solas in her peripheral drop back, closer to her and Rasanor.

“You’re lucky we’re parting ways after this. I’m aching to see what you’re really made of, Mao,” Bull said with strong innuendo. She reined Rasanor just slightly ahead of Solas and felt his gaze tear from the Qunari to fixate on her like white-hot augers.

“Flesh, blood, and bone,” she replied and Bull raised his tin with a snort, toasting the air. It was not a concession on his part. No matter, she would enjoy uncovering his own weaknesses, if he was so eager to stick his horns where he was unwelcome. After the demon’s antics in the Fade, her pride screamed for retribution. 

Their group finally reached Professor Frederic’s camp in its nestled place between the rocks. They left their mounts at his camp and continued forward with their weapons—Maordrid was using a mediocre staff from Griffon Wing since hers was still in the Fade—and Frederic wishing them luck with setting the lures. No one wanted to carry the stinking bait but Bull volunteered anyway, stating that he’d stand out there himself if it meant fighting the dragon. He looked at her when he said that.

She, Solas, and Dorian stood around near the top of the sandy bowl overlooking a small ruin as Bull and Yin circled it, setting out the bait. 

“That moron is purposely dragging his feet. Would anyone be upset if I slew him instead of the dragon?” she said, watching Bull painstakingly slowly arm the traps, arranging the entrails artfully. Solas smirked beside her, arms crossed. She kept casting glances at the Altus, hoping he’d start talking to her soon. She was just about to open her mouth to say his name when her ears twitched, feeling a strange vibration in the air that she hadn’t felt in many years. “Dragon,” she whispered at the same time Bull shouted it excitedly. Yin and Bull scattered toward the ruin just as the Abyssal High came flying over the red rocks, claws grazing them lazily. She felt Solas suddenly feed her his will and she cast a Fade Cloak, stretching it over him and Dorian with ease. The dragon landed heavily enough that the sand around them rippled. She began snuffing around, waving her head from side to side as she looked for the entrails the others had set out. 

“An impressive creature. There is a purity in such undiluted power,” she heard Solas say somewhere to her left.

“This day is officially ruined,” Dorian said. 

“Maybe she won’t attack?” she hoped aloud. The Abyssal suddenly swung her head around toward the ruins and roared mightily. Bull and Yin slipped out the other side stealthily, but the dragon had already seen—or smelled them. The _isenatha_ spun around and looked straight at the Qunari who stopped mid-stride to stare her down with a grin. The Abyssal’s eyes began to glow with the telltale signs of a fire growing within. Maordrid dashed along the edge of the bowl just in time to cast barriers over them both. Bull charged forward and rolled just as the dragon let loose a torrent of flame that turned the sand in its path to glass. Yin bolted the other way with a yelp, flinging up a wall of ice as he went. 

Bull roared as he reached the dragon’s underside and began swinging with abandon. Maordrid was forced to release their Fade Cloak in order to focus on keeping the foolish Qunari shielded against a kick of the dragon’s hind legs. He stumbled a little, but then spun and landed a decent hit on her heel. Yin reappeared from behind a pillar bearing his staff and spirit blade. Thoroughly angered, the dragon began her next attack, lifting her wings for the start of a maelstrom. 

“Get to cover!” Maori shouted as the wind kicked up. She fed more energy into maintaining Bull’s shield as he was caught in her maelstrom. He was drawn beneath her body yet again and would nearly have been disembowelled if not for her watchful eye. There was no time to attempt a disruption field. When the dragon stopped beating her wings, Yin Fade stepped all the way around her, slicing behind all four legs in the soft areas. The dragon howled in rage and swept her tail out, which caught him right in the middle with an audible _oof_. At first Maori thought he was going to go flying, but the Inquisitor somehow latched on, letting go of his staff in favour of climbing up her back. 

“Ride that dragon, Boss!” Bull hooted as he drew the Abyssal’s attention with a swing at her neck. At that time, Dorian and Solas ran out to better cover them.

“Use cold spells!” she shouted at them, then growled under her breath when they didn’t listen. Maordrid Fade stepped her way toward the front of the dragon to draw her attention from the other mages hurling spells. The Abyssal jumped around wildly suddenly, shaking the ground and making it difficult to run. She realised Yin was still on her back, climbing her back spikes— _isenatha_ did not like that. There were flashes of light as he cast spells in an attempt to weaken her from above. The Veil cracked audibly as the Abyssal raised up her own barrier against their attacks, loosing an anguished column of flame into the sky before kicking out at Bull again. This time, it hit hard despite the multiple-layered barriers on him. The Qunari went rolling uncontrollably into a pillar, then was promptly double-tapped by a lash of her tail. 

“The Bull is down!” Dorian shouted but Maori was already acting as the dragon swung her head to check out what she’d hit. She skimmed across the sand, blurring through the Veil until she reached Bull who was struggling to sit up. His barrier decayed at the same moment that the dragon’s head went level with him. Maordrid ejected herself from her Fade step and landed just in front of the dragon’s maw. 

“If you are going to strike, do it now, Yin!” she screamed, getting a face full of smoke from the reptile’s nostrils. Smoke meant she was enjoying the moment before the kill. 

“ _Mao, what are you doing?_ ” Bull shouted from behind her as she released all of her magic. Maori put out a calming hand between her and the dragon and opened herself up completely, offering her mind and spirit for the dragon to examine. _Feel me, lethallin,_ she begged silently. The dragon took one step forward, a growl forming deep in her belly. _She can’t hear me. She’s cut off from the Fade unlike her ancestors. All she knows is survival._ Maordrid began backing away slowly, hand still outstretched. Blows continued to rain down from Solas and Dorian as they wore down her armour—but then she saw a flicker of movement as Yin stood up on her back, verdant sword shining as brightly as a rift in the sun. Without warning, he ran on his toes down the dragon’s neck. She yanked her consciousness back into herself and quickly cast a barrier over him, startling the dragon. _She felt something after all. Sorry, girl._ Maordrid danced forward and leapt onto her snout, gripping her great horns and screaming at Yin. All she heard was a terrible ripping sound and then she was flying up in the air, clinging for dear life as the dragon roared in agony. It was the one time she damned elven hearing. Deaf and riding the dragon’s skull like some kind of squirrel clinging to a branch in a gale, she realised that Yin had struck a critical blow. With a whip of her great head, she was thrown free of the horns and went colliding with a soft body that had the misfortune of being right in her trajectory. A barrier softened the blow, but they went rolling across the sand in the same manner as Bull had mere moments ago. She immediately sat up and watched as the dragon, unbelievably, collapsed in its death throes to the sand. Solas groaned off to the side where they had come apart. Maordrid got to her feet and jogged over to the dragon as she lay her head down, life beginning to fade from her eyes.

“ _Ir abelas, lethallin,_ ” she whispered, placing her hand against the dragon’s snout. _“Ane fra atish.”_ The dragon gave one last breath through her nostrils, eyes trained on her…and then it fell silent.

“You are absolutely insane.” She turned to see Yin hopping down from its neck, sopping wet with deep red blood. 

“Says the one that climbed up its neck,” she said. “What I did was hardly as dangerous as fighting her.” Yin laughed.

“Got me there,” he said, then placed his hand against the rough scales of the dragon’s face. “Yin the Dragonslayer. I kinda like the ring of it.” She just shook her head. Dorian was kneeling by Bull, handing him a health potion. Solas was just now getting to his feet, holding his head and glaring at her.

“Was that truly your best plan? Grab it by the horns?” he asked when she came over.

“It worked to some degree, no?” she said, looking him over for wounds. “Didn’t break any ribs, did you?” He shook his head, looking over at the dragon where Bull was already getting busy opening its belly up to search for swallowed treasures. 

“No. Your barriers are quite complex,” he said. “Sufficient enough not to warrant being carried out on your shoulders.” _An opening if I’ve ever seen one._ She spun low on the balls of her feet, grabbing his arm and ducking low in a smooth movement, digging her shoulder into his waist, arm between legs, hand braced behind the knee. Then she popped up, barely breaking her stride with the Wolf now strung across her shoulders. All of which had taken only a second. He shouted in protest as he curled his head inward to avoid eating sand.

“What was that, Solas?” she asked as the others turned around at his cry and doubled over with peals of laughter. “I think your pride was wounded! You need assistance.” 

“You are not as funny as you think you are,” he grunted out, bracing his free hand against her back in an attempt to stabilise himself. 

“I don’t know, you being upended by a little warrior elf is pretty damn funny,” Yin said, leaning against his staff. She laughed and carefully set him back down on his feet where he proceeded to brushing himself off indignantly.

“I will have my revenge,” he said, looking down his nose at her. 

“Hey! Check it out, a staff!” Bull called, voice muffled as he exploded out of the dragon’s gut with the loot. He tossed it to Yin who looked it over.

“It has a storm core. Here, it’s yours,” he said, tossing it to her. She noted an inscription on the grip in old Tevene and though she could read it, she looked at Dorian.

“There are words in it. Can you translate?” she asked him. He raised a brow and took it from her, rotating the shaft until the words faced him.

“‘ _There is strength in absence. Absence of weakness, and of limitation. Absence of caution and of mercy. The Void has always been within.’_ Interesting. Reminds me of someone I know,” he quipped, handing it back. She narrowed her eyes at him. 

“Well then! We’ll have to send some people over to harvest anything else. I’d hate for it all to go to waste,” Yin said. “Let’s get back to Frederic, see if we can’t recruit his arse. I may throw myself into the water in the Canyons on the way out. I’m not wearing dragon’s blood the rest of the day.” 

“Are you sure, Boss? I’ll bet Dorian’s getting all hot and bothered under those skirts of his. His people worship those things, after all,” Bull said as they trudged up the sand. Dorian just groaned and face-palmed.

\--------------------------

  


It took far too long in her eyes to meet up with the rest of the group. Dhrui waited for her on the edges while Yin made the proper arrangements going forward.

“Any luck?” she murmured, patting Shamun on his round snout. Dhrui shook her head.

“Nothing. Are you sure no one was around when you stashed it?” Dhrui asked. 

“I was when I did it. But now I’m not so sure.” Maordrid yanked her braid in frustration as her stress and foul mood spiked once again.

“What is your plan?” Dhrui asked. 

“I’ve yet to search through the belongings of everyone in the dragon party,” she said, eyes picking apart everyone once again. “If it doesn’t turn up tonight…this may be good-bye.” Dhrui’s eyes widened, lips parting.

“If you leave, I’m coming with you,” she whispered, but Maori shot her an uncertain look.

“And how would you explain that to your brother?” she asked. 

“Me? What about you?” She was right. Leaving without raising suspicion would be tough. They’d likely send people after her with their suspicions confirmed of her supposed duplicity. Escaping would be easy…but trying to explain herself at a later date would be hard.

“Let’s just get this over with. I need more time to think.” Maordrid left her in silence. This sudden and unexpected turn of events was not something she had prepared for. Hopefully there would be coming back from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Maori vs. Solas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECJ5PvAz3kg) (lol it's literally just the move that Maori used on him. @21 seconds)
> 
>  _Ane fra atish_ =you are at peace/be at peace


	71. Reluctant Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fahfsadfjkhkjasf I posted this too soon and forgot to fix the formatting   
> (strikethroughs)

While the inner circle bantered and prepared to go their separate ways for their different missions, Yin slipped into the post’s command tent to write a letter. There was something he had to do that he knew no one else would. No one else could because he was the bloody Inquisitor. _I’m so sorry, my friends._

He sat down at the table inside with a piece of parchment and a pen. It took him a while to set the tip against the blank sheet. A spot of ink dripped onto it, spreading like the poison in his heart.

_Leliana,_

_I have had a change of mind regarding my previous decision to drop the investigation into Maordrid’s background._

_I do not make this decision easily, but in light of events at Adamant and the days that have followed, I feel now that ~~maybe~~ it is necessary. I am sure by the time this letter reaches you, word will have also reached you of her feat. But hear it from me: somehow, she ~~killed?~~ faced down a powerful demon and survived. Furthermore, she escaped the Fade. Without the Mark, that should have been impossible (or at least…in her state). She claims she used blood magic, but even that should have taken a power and strength that I don’t think any of the mages in the Inquisition possess. Everything that happened in the Fade only reinforces that belief. And…we fought a dragon today. She refused to take up a weapon against it, choosing instead to support us from a distance. (On the other hand, she was—or is?—recovering from a fracture, so who knows). The point is, the dragon was slain, but it didn’t end there. No one else noticed…but I think she tried to talk to it. It gives me the chills thinking about it even now._

_I have turned a blind eye to her peculiar nature because of our quick bond in Haven. By the way, did we ever find out why she was there in the first place? I don’t remember, so probably not. I feel it is my responsibility to keep my eye on her. I pray that my suspicion is just a residue of stress. She has been a mentor to myself and my sister and she is ruthless in battle, protecting and putting us all first when it comes to danger. Don’t forget that when you are searching. Creators know that I don’t have the strength to ask her such questions now. Trust is…tenuous._

_Stay safe,_

_Inq. Yin Lavellan_

  


He folded the letter carefully, sealed it, and then slipped it into an envelope that he sealed again. When he handed it off to Harding, it took all of the restraint he could muster not to yank it back and burn it. Especially when he saw Maori sitting beneath one of the scraggly trees nearby beside Solas and Dhrui, gesturing in her fluid way as she spoke. Solas' head was tilted, eyes rapt on her in a way that reminded him of how he had once listened to the older elf back in Haven. Dhrui was sprawled out in the sand before them, pillowed by their packs as she tore into a slice of dried fruit, also listening. At one point, the three of them laughed and Maori ducked her head, ears and cheeks flaming. Yin forced himself to look away, only to see Harding handing his message over to the runner that would be returning with the larger party back to Skyhold. It was done. He had cast his die and all he could do was hope it landed favourably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I felt like I should post something, even if it was small. If anyone is ever wondering why there is a sudden lull in posts, I will always put out an update on my Tumblr [SaltyHealer!](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/)...so I will abstain from explaining why I delayed posting because the answer is on there!  
> If anyone cares, of course.  
> Thanks for all your patience, friends!


	72. Honey & Flame

  


_Of course. Time magic in a temple,_ she thought as they stood before a rift frozen impossibly in the centre of the ruins.

“This looks familiar,” Yin said, demonstrating the same unease that they were all likely feeling. “Do you think this was the Venatori’s doing?” 

“No, slowing time like this would require great power. It may be what drew them here,” Solas said as they picked their way cautiously around the frozen demons and mages.

“Hm. Some ancient Tevinter, no doubt. I’m surprised it didn’t go better,” Dorian remarked, knocking his staff experimentally against the Despair demon directly below the rift. 

While the others spread out to look through the chamber, Maordrid crept up beside the Altus as he walked up to a large door and jiggled the handle.

“Can you imagine that in another world you were capable of this? More?” she whispered after making sure the others were well away. He turned slowly from the door, looking at her with different levels of unease and irritation. 

“Clearly something was botched. You came back to prevent all of this. And yet it happened,” he said. “There is always _something_ that’s overlooked.” He gave her one last piercing glare and left the doors. She found that she truly did not like Dorian being angry with her. Dorian was honest, intelligent, and loyal…and she had screwed up time and time again, pushing on the boundaries of friendship. She’d never really been a good friend—again, due to her inflated ego and pride. She was terrible at only ever realising her erring in hindsight…which, _in_ hindsight was definitely a bad thing. And because of all that, she found that she did not know how to exactly approach this man who was also her friend…who she had also wounded. It made her scalp and neck prickle with uncomfortable heat. 

Scowling, she knelt before the lock, feeding her aura into the hole to examine the mechanism. It was an old lock but with some ice, she flash-froze the interior and cracked it open. The metal whined in protest but remained closed. She contained a molten flash-fire spell within a small barrier and quickly spun in a half circle, sling-shotting the bubble of fire into the door at the same time that she delivered a powerful kick that did the trick. The doors creaked open and she slipped inside to find some sort of ancient study. Yin popped in, clearly drawn by the raucous she had made breaking the door. They looked around briefly but didn’t find anything of much use besides a curious letter about blood magic. Written in the Storm Age. Thoroughly mystified, she continued to search for more information on what experiments the Tevinters had been trying to conduct. But, there was no such luck in the antechambers.

Eventually, they moved onto another area in the temple where several Venatori were milling about. Caught off guard, their party of five had the upperhand ever so briefly. Maordrid wished they had at least brought Blackwall along with them, as he was bigger and very good at drawing attention away from the mages. Iron Bull had been correct about one thing—she heavily relied on the element of surprise to take many of her opponents for many reasons. Assuming the role that their non-mage warriors usually filled wasn’t something she had been prepared for. She had never been one for flashy magic—every drop of mana counted—and had never had a reason to. She floundered. Her stalling brought on a sense of terrible embarrassment—rarely was she thrown in battle—which in turn caused her to freeze entirely as every Venatori turned toward them. Fortunately, her panic proved to be as effective a distraction as banging on a shield with a sword. The mages cast and the archers nocked their bows while the warriors in their ranks charged her. Dorian and Dhrui kept the mages from overwhelming her, Solas kept her shielded, and Yin tried to fight alongside her with his own sword against the warriors. He was skilled, but they had never fought so closely together. It was one thing to watch and learn someone’s style from afar, but to do so in actual battle was always a tricky adjustment. Almost predictably, they were both wounded. In the moment that she felled a warrior taller than her and turned to engaged an archer, Yin collided with her. In doing so, the barrier Solas cast—either meant for her or Yin—completely missed its mark and the bowman fired a shot into Yin’s thigh. The second attack that took her off her feet came from a fist of ice that exploded. Shouting out the breach in defense to Dorian and Dhrui, Solas cast an ice storm interpolated with Rift magic meteors. The other two took advantage of his attack and managed to slay the three remaining—and magically overwhelmed—enemies with combined necromancy and wild Dalish spells while Maori and Yin crawled to cover. After, Maori propped herself up against a wall and slowly squeezed razor thin splinters of ice out of her own thigh. Her armour was nearing the end of its lifespan. She watched sadly as Dagna’s defense enchantment flickered and faded from her stormheart scales.

The others took a few minutes to extract the arrow from Yin’s leg. Dorian held Yin’s thigh while Solas expertly pulled it free then sealed the worst of the wound and bandaged it. After, he turned and advanced on her as she was unwinding a length of dressing. She hopped away from him, waving his healing away.

“It’s nothing, my armour took the brunt of the damage.” Technically the truth. Solas stopped and moved her mangled mail out of the way with the end of his staff. His eyes flicked over her, head to toe, with nothing more than clinical detachment.

“The exhilaration of battle yet rushes through your blood,” he said, lowering his staff, “Are you aware that your stitches are bleeding?” She looked down, moving the loose scale mail to the side to see a perfect red line staining her white shirt beneath. As if he had marked her with a stroke of one of his paintbrushes. “Of course you weren’t.” She sighed and drank part of a hemostatic potion she'd made, glaring at him over its glass body. Likely, the stitching had been irritated by her earlier dragon-riding tactics. Fighting more was certainly not doing her recovery any favours. But duty called and she was needed.

“It was a momentary lapse in…judgement,” she said, corking the vial and hastily wrapping her leg with the dressing. At least the wounds in her thigh had stopped bleeding. The one in her side was stubborn to heal and she wondered if the weapon used to make it had been more than just phantom steel. When she went to move past him, Solas stopped her with a hand in the crook of her elbow.

“Your spellwork is quite similar to my own,” he said lowly, releasing her. “If I may offer a word of advice?” She nodded though the gesture could hardly convey her overflowing intrigue. She was fascinated by his magic. Especially when he had been at his most powerful. Solas checked on the others with a casual glance and seeing that they were still preoccupied with wounds and looting bodies, he turned to her fully, leaning on his staff in a more relaxed manner. “You pick at the threads of the Veil and draw magic through, weaving a fabric and pattern of your own. Depending on the area, sometimes it is fine as silk, in others it is rough as wool. Regardless, the end result is effective and always efficient. And beautiful.” She leaned back, raising her brows in surprise.

“Not quite advice, but thank you all the same, Solas.” He flashed her a small, knowing smile.

“Yet, in our current situation, being efficient may not work to your advantage,” he continued. “If you would allow the magic to remain…” he trailed off, eyes turning toward the skies as he searched for the right words, “…fluffy—” She barked out a laugh, but gestured for him to go on. “—as wool is in its natural state, yes? A looser weave, if you will.” 

She eyed him with uncertainty. “That would make my magic more…” she paused. “Oh.” There were traces of amusement on his face as it clicked. Essentially, a less refined cast would make her stand out, much like Dorian with his shiny spellwork. Exactly what she needed to keep their enemies focused on her and not them. “ _Ma serannas._ ”

“Think nothing of it. Really. I would not have the others believe I am encouraging rough manipulations of the delicate balance we strive to maintain,” he said, turning with her to rejoin the others. "They _would_ interpret it that way." 

“Are you feeling particularly poetic right now? It is night and day difference how I’ve heard you talk with Dorian of magic,” she said. His sidelong glance was accompanied by an air of playfulness.

“Inspired, perhaps,” he said. She chuckled warmly.

“Oh? Elucidate?” 

“I find myself drawn to putting forth more of an effort to construct meaningful conversation with you.” Why did he have to be so bloody good with words? She’d almost prefer that he spoke to her in the technical way that he did with Dorian, if only to keep the incessant blushes away from the tips of her ears. Hopefully everyone simply believed she was perpetually sunburned. 

“You see me as a weaver, then?” she smirked. His scalp moved with his change of expression, causing his ears to twitch endearingly.

“Or a…minstrel of magic, conducting it across the Veil with the same gentle grace I have seen present when you play the lute,” he said, face carefully composed. “If we are to use that metaphor instead, play louder, dissonantly, and…essentially be annoying.”

“Now it just feels as though I am not good enough for one of the more complex explanations,” she said wryly. 

_“Ar tel’emitha.”_ Her eyes sought his mouth automatically at the use of their language. They were the very picture of mischief. _“Your magic is its own language. I have seen it nuanced at times of peace and sharpened to a razor’s edge when in battle. There is thought and meaning behind your spells, carefully wrought but not so restricted that you would strip the magic entirely of its primordial nature.”_ She held his gaze, trying to ignore the heat building in her core. 

_“Show off,_ ” she muttered. Did he just wink at her? 

_“I only wished to give advice, if you are to lead us into battle. I gather it was sufficient?”_ he asked as they rejoined the others. Yin and Dhrui paused in their own conversation to look at them, obviously curious at the usage of their language. Maori realised that she hadn’t quite spoken to any of them at length in elvish. _“I can continue if you like. In this tongue I may provide several more examples,”_ he said, clearly unconcerned.

_“And spend the rest of the day pondering all possible intents? With a man who takes pride in speaking elusively?”_ she said, earning a chuckle from him. _“I would enjoy verbally sparring with you, but we are still in the heart of a hostile ruin.”_ Solas opened his mouth to offer rebuttal, but Dorian made an objectionable noise.

“They’re flirting, aren’t they,” Dorian grumbled, looking between them. “Does that mean we aren’t far off from witnessing them sing a beautiful song to make flowers bloom through the stone? Perhaps some naked frolicking in the moonlight?” 

“I see Tevinter lore about elves remains accurate, as always,” Solas remarked with a bit of frost to his tone. There was a collective eye-roll between the other three. Finally, they decided to move beyond the Viridis Walk and actually look for the thing that the Venatori had been seeking. There was a door up some stairs opposite the way they had entered, sealed shut with magic. During the earlier corpse-looting, Yin and Dorian had collected two keystones that fit the door. But when it didn’t budge, they quickly put together that there were still more keys missing. Everyone split up to look for the rest after it had been determined that four remained. She noticed Dhrui and Dorian wander off into a side door on the opposite side, talking between themselves. Maordrid slipped off after them, hoping to at least corner Dorian—

“—leaving if it isn’t found.” There was a strange colour to Dhrui’s words that had her she stopping in the entrance. The two mages spun, looking at her from beside a podium that held a tome. “I was just…talking to Dorian about the book.” Dhrui hefted the tome off the wooden pedestal, eyes flicking behind Maori. She didn’t need to look to know that someone was outside the room. Whoever it was barely paused as they moved on to search elsewhere.

“You looked around the keep for it?” Dorian whispered to her. Maordrid nodded. His brow furrowed then, a vertical line appearing between them. He relinquished the tome from Dhrui and leafed through it frowning deeply. “Well, then. I suppose that means you need our help now?” 

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Maordrid asked with a scowl. “I’ve always needed your help!” Dorian gave one of his high-pitched mocking laughs.

“Mhm, sure. Except for all the times you’ve failed to include me on your _brilliant_ plans,” he said in a hiss. “Like the time you threw yourself at Corypheus’ face! Best plan? No, you’ve just got a bloody death wish—” He cut off suddenly. “This is neither the time nor place to have this discussion. _You_ lost the manuscript. You should have trusted us.” He tucked the newfound tome under his arm and brushed past her, leaving the women alone. Maordrid glared at Dhrui who threw her hands up defensively.

“I mean, he’s right, don’t look at me.” 

“He can’t avoid me forever,” Maordrid said once they had cleared the room. The others were already meeting in the centre of the Walk, prepared to open the door. What they did not expect to see on the other side was some kind of blood magic spell held in an eternal stasis. A strange black circle hovered above a staff—she could neither tell if the circle was a globe or a hole in reality. As they spread out around the ritual site, she discovered another message as well as a small note about the strange staff. One Helladius was attempting to cast a powerful spell that would result in the preservation of the lands surrounding the temple. _Why_ , she could only guess, as her knowledge of the Western Approach was limited—the peak only being that there was an Old God prison in the area. The second note was about the staff. It was an Avvar relic that hummed with power. She was left with more questions than answers and ended up passing the papers over to Yin…which proved to be a bad idea. He walked right up to the staff, hand outstretched.

“Yin…” everyone warned in unison, but the elf’s hand closed around it.

“We can’t very well just leave it to be claimed by them, can we?” he asked, and then pulled it free. Immediately, the spell broke and the entire area around the staff exploded, sending the Inquisitor tumbling arse-over-brains off the dais. Dhrui and Dorian rushed forward, helping him to his feet as demonic screeches rose throughout the ruin. Ominously, a few skulls tumbled down from the air. Maordrid erected a large Aegis over them all as the ceiling collapsed above them.

“You’ll never bloody learn not to touch things you shouldn’t!” Dhrui snapped at her brother. 

And then they were fighting. Maori took the front, trying her best to make herself _visible_ while hacking and slashing and casting through demons and cultists alike. With each spell that she cast, she snapped it against the Veil like a whip. Doing so made her skin crawl and her tongue taste metallic, but it also drew their enemies to her like ants to sugar. Fortunately, her mages brought up the back and flanks like the wings and hind legs of some terrifying magical beast.

“Is that rift just spitting out more demons to make up for the time it was frozen?” Maori cried as they burst into the main chamber. 

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna close it!” Yin said and then jumped over the rail, sprinting toward it. Fortunately, Solas was quick to react and cast a barrier over him as their foolish leader advanced. Dorian reanimated a few corpses and sent them to fight at Yin’s side as the rest of them got busy dispatching the other enemies. The demons in the area spasmed as Yin disrupted the rift, allowing several to be dispatched. The remaining Venatori, however, were not stunned and continued to attack. As Maori wrenched her sword from a spellbinder, she narrowly dodged the heavy swing from a massive axe wielded by a brute. If not for her barrier, the edge of the weapon would have caught her in the back of the head. She spun on her heels and rolled in a crescent to avoid a downward attack meant to cleave her in half, then jumped up, dropping her sword and throwing her staff up before her as the axe came down again. She skidded backward from the force of the blow as the brute bore down on her, trying to wear down her strength. Breathing through gritted teeth, she fled backward in a Fade step, but the behemoth of a man predicted it, cutting upward with the end of his axe. She narrowly batted it away, arms jarring, and stepped to his inside while removing her dagger always sheathed at her back and using it to slice at his inner bicep as she slid beneath and behind him. He grunted in pain and struck backward with a fist clad in wicked heavy metal, catching her cheek. She swore, then retreated backward, considering another plan of attack.

“I’m gonna split you right down to your cunt, knife-ear!” he bellowed, turning in his heavy armour. Maordrid whirled her staff, gathering the abundance of ambient magic in the air like a cobweb around a stick, then brought the butt down on the stone to concentrate it at the bottom. The staff made the air around her thick with static that she immediately flicked up at his face. The staff connected with his helm and exploded with electricity. The behemoth convulsed in his death suit—and to finish him off, Solas and Dhrui appeared, one casting a fire spell that instantly heated up the metal while the other pierced him through the crotch with a well aimed spike of ice from the ground. 

“Right up yours, twat!” Dhrui shouted as he died. A burst of green across every stone surface alerted them to the rift finally closing. Then it was silent, save for everyone’s panting. 

“Everyone all right?” Yin called out. Maordrid wiped the blood from her face and shrugged, content to walk away but stopped when Solas pulled her around, hands already glowing with healing magic, lips pressed together in displeasure. 

“Why do you insist on picking a fight with the largest thing in the room?” he asked.

“To establish dominance,” the retort flew off her tongue. She’d been spending too much time with Dhrui. “Why, was I _too_ distracting, _haurasha’av_? Your poetry paid off.” She tore away from him, wheezing with laughter at his incredulous expression. When she rejoined the others, Dhrui was healing Yin who unsurprisingly sustained more than a few wounds in his mad dash across the battlefield. 

An hour later as they were dividing their findings from the temple back at the Inquisition’s Canyon Camp, Maordrid took the opportunity to smoke her pipe while trying to freshen up in the pools nearby. Impressively, Dhrui stripped as she walked until she was in just her smalls and breastband, throwing herself into the water in a splash of sparkling droplets. Maordrid just stood calf-deep with her hands on her hips, pipe clenched between her teeth as the girl surfaced with a loud sigh. The others followed one by one in a less dramatic manner than the younger Lavellan, removing only enough armour or clothing to splash water on desert-cooked skin. Some time later, they were securing their mounts for the final time when a distinct Orlesian voice cried out down the canyon. Every face bore some degree of surprise when they recognised Professor Frederic trying to hustle his horse-drawn wagon toward them. The Inquisitor met him halfway where they stood exchanging words. It was a spectacle, watching the Antivan-Dalish interacting with the enthusiastic Orlesian academic. There was lots of gesticulating between the two. Minutes later, Yin returned to their group scratching the back of his neck.

“He wants to travel with us to Val Royeaux,” he told them. “That tome we looted from the ruins is of great interest to him but its written in Tevene. He can’t translate it. At least, not here.”

“He is a Professor at the University. He could have access to a great amount of resources,” Solas said, ears pricking with excitement. “Having him along would likely make the travel across the desert much more bearable as well.” Dorian looked askance at the elf from atop his horse.

“It will also take much longer. Have you seen that load his horse is towing? I enjoy the heat, it reminds me of home, and the sand can be exfoliating. But _nothing_ about this desert has been pleasant,” the Altus said. He shook his head and a fine glittering of sand came free of his hair. He gestured to it with a look of horror. Solas rolled his eyes.

“Frederic may be able to provide clearer answers—or at least hypothesise on the nature of Corypheus’ dragon,” Maori decided to put in. Yin nodded thoughtfully in her direction, then looked at his sister.

“Don’t look at me, they’re all sound ideas,” Dhrui said. “If he can get us access to the University though, I’d say it’s worth the slog across the sand. Just bear in mind that if we get attacked by bandits he’s another body to protect.” 

And that was how they recruited the chatty academic into the Inquisition.

Less than an hour later, they were travelling east.

To say that the journey back across the desert to reach the Imperial Highway was peaceful and filled with engaging conversation _would_ have been true for anyone except for Maordrid. She was silently going insane. As a younger, brasher elf, she might have passed the time plotting intricate deaths for every person in her party to better ensure no loose ends. But being much older—and in the company of people she loved—she carefully examined her memory of the last few days: the behaviours of each individual at the Keep, who had been nearby, who had not, the patterns of speech…

She narrowed it down to two people:

Dorian and Iron Bull. Bull had been oddly inquisitive and passive aggressive toward her that day. Comments toward her power and then the dragon? Unfortunately, there was no way for her to confirm her suspicions toward him unless she slipped away as a bird and caught up during the night to the Sahrnia-bound party. She might very well do that if Dorian turned up empty handed.

And so that night she volunteered first watch and immediately watched everyone for uncharacteristic reactions. Solas was his usual passive self, Yin was no less agreeable, Dhrui _scrutinised her back_ like a good little spy, and Dorian, well, was still distant. 

Tents were erected, sleeping arrangements made. Frederic was sleeping in the back of his covered wagon, tucked between his books and tools. Dorian was with Yin and somehow, Dhrui had acquired a single-person tent. She realised that the Lavellans were meddling, putting her and Solas together. They thought they were clever, trapping her with him. _But,_ unbeknownst to any of them, her and Solas were guileful together. For some reason, no matter where the two Lavellans put their bedrolls, the sand was uncomfortably uneven—as if magic were keeping it so—and their disgruntled groans proved as much after they had all retired to their respective tents. Her and Solas sat smugly at the top of a dune just above the camp indulging in some stolen berry bread that Dhrui had in her pack.

“There is something to look forward to in Val Royeaux,” Solas commented as he licked berry juice from his fingers and gazed at the spray of constellations above them.

“Hm?” She was still chewing her bread, relishing each tiny berry that popped in her mouth and sent a burst of tartness across her tongue.

“Pastries! But more specifically, the frilly cakes,” he said with an enthusiasm that made her chuckle.

“I did not take you for someone with a sweet tooth, Solas,” she said, swallowing her bite before she could start choking.

“You would too if you had tried them. Have you?” he asked. She shook her head. “A shame.” He _tsked,_ oddly playful for how late it was. “That should be rectified.”

“Is that a proposition I hear in your voice?” she said, popping another piece into her mouth.

“Is that acceptance I hear in yours? Dangerous, _lethallin._ ” That only pulled more laughter from her.

“Your excitement alone over _siugen bradh_ is more than enough to pique my interest. That you would share it with me would be an honour.” She bowed as extravagantly as she could from where she sat. When she looked back up at him he was smiling widely. _He’s beautiful when he smiles._

Suddenly he was looking at her funny, cheeks darkening even in the low light of the moon and stars.

“As are you.” _Oh. No. Void take me, I spoke out loud—and…wait, did he just call me—how dare—?_

She let out a strangled noise and looked back down the dune, wondering how quickly she could throw herself down it. Beside her, he broke out in a fit of quiet laughter that rolled across the silent dunes like a silken breeze. 

“Well, I suppose the truth wanted to make itself known. You’re welcome,” she said in a flat tone, realising that so much time spent in the desert had cooked her brain. _Might as well own it._ “I’m banishing you to your bedroll before I can embarrass myself any more.” Solas retained his smug expression even when he was on his feet. 

“ _Ma nuvenin, avise_. Enjoy the rest of your bread,” he said. She shook her head and watched as he descended, the sand cascading around his ankles like water. When he disappeared into their tent, her smile faded. She waited twenty painful minutes before heading down the sandy hill herself in perfect silence—straight for Dorian’s saddlebags sitting beside his Imperial Warmblood. She crouched in the darkness and began sifting through the pockets. She began to think that he went through the motions to clear each pouch every night of his most valuables—until she flipped open one of the larger pockets and saw the familiar binding. She went through a flood of different emotions, hand frozen in the act of removing it. A hundred questions swarmed her skull.

“I see you’re _quite_ enjoying the Dread Wolf’s company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ar tel'emitha_ =essentially, 'I disagree with that.'  
>  _haurasha’av_ =honey tongue (LOL)  
>  _siugen bradh_ =sugar bread (cake)  
>  _avise_ =fire tongue (in obviously a flirtatious way, not literal)
> 
>  
> 
> Other crap:  
> OKAY, so the Still Ruins! THEY ARE SO MYSTERIOUS it drives me nutsthe common theme of Bioware games. Like, wtf was Helladius doing? Why (and how) were they in possession of an Avvar staff? Does Bioware actually have a reason? What's the story behind the Still Ruins? I need complete answers, none of this fragmental(?) shit. [Seriously, this is the only speculation that exists on the temple.](https://www.reddit.com/r/dragonage/comments/a78gmu/dai_spoilers_even_after_5_playthroughs_the_still/)
> 
> Also, I'm officially super behind. I've a lot written, but I need to get more ahead. I hope you all don't mind if the next update comes later than usual. I swear it's for quality control reasons (and building better plot). And don't forget, I love you all.


	73. Upon Your Pedestal

  


Dorian watched as the elf stood slowly, crossing his arms. Part of him was apprehensive, but the other was just furious. As he had been for the last few days.

“Shall we have a chat? Perhaps on that dune over there?” She finally faced him, carefully composed. Dorian turned and stalked off. He would have much preferred to hold this conversation in a more private area, but after Dhrui told him that Maordrid was considering leaving, he knew there could be no more waiting. He led them far enough out that he knew it would be impossible for anyone to eavesdrop. But of course, his main concern was Solas. He put up a minor ward around them anyway.

“You set me up,” she said immediately after he faced her again. “You let me believe the worst.” Dorian crossed his arms again with a scoff.

“Please, it’s the least you deserve,” he said. “We warned you, after all. You didn’t listen.” She scowled, avoiding his gaze. 

“Well, now you know.” He tried not to let his irritation show, but he had pent up _a lot_ since Adamant.

It flowed out of him like a gushing wound. “How come I never saw it before?” She peered up at him, suddenly diffident. “You’re not selfless—you’re utterly selfish.” It was her turn to cross her arms as if _that_ would protect her against his words. “Do you ever stop to consider how your actions may effect others? Your little heroic antics in the Fade cut us all—your _friends_.” She opened her mouth, but he stepped back, waving his hands furiously. “Actually, do you even consider us friends? Or are we just insignificant blips in your…immortal eyes? That’s why you won’t let us get close. Because _we’re_ going die in a few more decades while you continue untouched by mortal problems. Why the effort, right?” Maordrid seemed to give up trying to get a word in, letting his own hurt hit her like blows. “Yin still hasn’t forgiven himself. He took all the blame again and he’s gone bloody distant. But wait, there's more! Dhrui gave you a piece of her mind, but I’ll bet Solas was too polite. He thought he was being sneaky, but the Dread Wolf shed tears. Your death reduced the breaker of worlds to silent weeping!”

“Stop—” she begged weakly. 

“Stop, she says! Are you sure? It does seem like you are truly happy playing this...delusional hero. Standing upon what you seem to think is a pedestal of honour. No, it is a sword's edge, dear, and you've stuck yourself on it. What will happen when you gut yourself again? Do you think we will be around to save you? How will I know that it isn't some clever ploy of yours when you do? Because I won't. Not unless you allow me to know you.” He wanted to walk away on that note. To let it sink in like blood in the sand. Her lack of trust in him—and Dhrui—hurt more than the truth written in those pages. He wanted to be her friend— _to save the blighted world with her—_ but _Kaffas,_ the woman was difficult. And now… _now_ he was scared and very conflicted. He was almost thinking he would need a contingency plan in case Yrja—Maordrid—whatever—went rogue. _Very few, however honourable, release power they have won._ Who had said that recently? He wanted to punch them for putting that doubt in his head. He needed to believe she was better, just like Yin. They had to be. 

Maori burst into a flurry of _rhyming_ elven. 

“I can’t understand any of that,” he snapped, cutting her off.

“It’s…an old apology. Traditionally followed up with a season spent…serving the wounded party,” she finally said, steel eyes fixed on the sand by her feet. “What you said…I needed to hear it.”

“Good. I’m glad you think so,” he said. He was quite grateful for his refined skill in maintaining a veneer of false poise. “The question is, will you learn? Or are you just going to keep repeating your own history? If the worst happens and we fail to change this timeline, there is no way you are going to take on this task alone. Although I know you would try. The other me sent you back and gave you the means to enlist _my_ help. But I need you to help me, Maordrid. Let me understand!” She kept her head bowed, hands loose at her sides. “Why didn’t you tell me about Solas? Do you think me incapable of keeping it a secret? That I wouldn’t be able to resist making snide comments or-or staring?” She flinched, then met his gaze with a broken, anguished expression that almost penetrated his own armour. “I know that you have a wellspring of knowledge about this world and what is going on. Much more than what is in that book. To ring the alarm bells on this matter would likely do more damage than actual good. I’ve asked Dhrui all about their Dalish myths and legends to get a better understanding. Even if we wanted to, it sounds like throwing Solas in a cell wouldn’t be enough to stop him.”

“You are right. It wouldn’t be, weakened even as he is,” she said in a small voice. 

“You know, I could have been much more aggressive in pulling favours to help us get ahead if I had only known.” He took a few steps toward her, placing his hands on her upper arms. “I saw Yin’s notes in the book. He loved Solas like a brother. And he does even now…” Dorian took a deep breath, releasing her. “You both see something in the man. And as your friend, I can see there is an attraction. The others have a harder time reading you, but you’re not exactly subtle around Dhrui and I.” The woman wrapped her arms around herself as though she was falling apart inside. He would be too, if Yin turned out to be an elf god with mass-murdering tendencies. Despite her questionable taste in men and the anger he felt, he _did_ trust her. He wondered what that meant about his own judgement…

“What do you want me to say? Yes, I care for Solas!” Then, her voice turned brittle and she looked smaller than ever, “More than I care for myself. _Bel'alan'en._ ” His brows raised as something dawned on him.

“You didn’t keep the truth from me because you didn’t trust me. It’s because you didn’t trust yourself.” She shivered, fingers burrowing into her sides. 

“You called me selfish. I am. I wanted a chance to see where our friendship went. Always denying that it would never be more than that. Hoping I could change something in him. But I know that is wishful thinking. _I_ am the one…” she trailed off, not finishing the thought. He almost asked her to, but she continued, “I was afraid of your reaction. I still am.” She cut off, turning her back on him.

“We’re going to work together, going forward,” he said. “From what I know of you, you’re driven by an incredibly strong sense of duty. You must be if you came to this dimension. Falling in love isn’t going to stop you from doing what you must, is it?” She gave a quiet, bitter laugh.

“If I have noticed anything, it has only made my desire to see it through even stronger, Dorian,” she said with a conviction he decided to believe. 

“Dhrui said as much.” She looked over her shoulder.

“She knows, then?” she asked. 

“Some. She understands what Solas is better than I do. I read the book while you were recovering and shared some with her,” he said. Maordrid froze in the act of biting her lip.

“She did not let anything on. She hasn’t even looked at Solas any differently.” 

_Actually, she looked like a rabid rabbit, hopping and frothing._ He was surprised Dhrui had not expired of shock in front of him. “Oh, I can assure you that she lost her shit when she found out,” he said instead. “Of course, when she finally calmed down some she declared it _hot_ that a legend walks quietly amongst us. Then again, she thinks that of you too. Said it all makes sense.”

“I expected her to be…angrier,” Maordrid said. “Not offer to leave with me if the transcript didn’t turn up.” This time, she insulted herself in Tevene. He agreed enthusiastically, tossing a hand. “Dorian, if it means anything, I am sorry for everything.”

“If you’re sorry—”

“No more hiding. I swear,” she said. He tapped a finger on his forearm, looking down at the short elf.

“Has Fen’harel _ever_ thought his plans through? Maker, I want to kick Solas in the shins,” he said. Maordrid shrugged.

“Yes and no, I think would be the right answer. I may be…old, but I do not know his reasons for everything. He is not big on trust,” she said. “Yin in my world told me that after talking to Solas for the last time he got the sense that he was crying out for help—only so much as his pride would allow him. _'I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again.'”_ For a moment, he felt like he could almost hear the words spoken in Solas’ rhythm and timbre. Even she went quiet after reciting those words.

“What are your plans…as of now?” he asked.

“Personally, I am looking into securing the Eluvians. Next, find out how I can become a dragon…then head to the Temple of Mythal,” she said. “I expect much to change come the next few months. I have to accomplish as much as possible before Yin defeats Corypheus.” The Temple…where there was some kind of well connected to another elven god. But if he recalled correctly, Yin had…drank from it? He prayed she had a different plan. He didn’t want to lose Yin to madness.

“What can I do _now_ with the time we have?” he asked. The notes left by his other self had mostly been information on politics in Tevinter. Names of conspirators, spies, plots. It seemed the other Dorian had had his hands full with his homeland until Yrja approached him. Then there was the fate of the Inquisition. Yin had disbanded their organisation due to corruption and the seeding of spies within their own numbers and had apparently fallen back into the role of a spy himself. With Leliana and the Red Jennies, he had been working to infiltrate Solas' own ranks. There was lots of information in the transcript regarding their findings then. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option yet. He understood why they couldn’t tell Yin the truth—the other version had written a bold note expressly advising against telling his younger self for fear that he would react adversely to her, and possibly Solas himself. Because of course it wouldn’t be easy.

“You have read the book—there are troubles in your own country. I need a more stable foothold in the north than I currently do. Safehouses, connections, resources—if things take a turn for the sour, I need to keep eyes off of me. I have a few people tasked with searching for relics left behind by the other Evanuris, though we could use more. In my timeline, Solas went to an old temple of Elgar’nan in Tevinter to tear down the Veil. My people have already cleaned that place out of the relic it held. But there are others out there that he will go after.” He nodded thoughtfully, wracking his brains for anything useful, but he knew he would need to consult books and scrolls for that.

“How widespread _are_ your people, exactly?”

“We are small but highly specialised and have eyes and ears in the places that count. It is a…very delicate balance we maintain.” _But she is at the tip of the spearhead, keeping her eyes on the true threat._

“What about the Veil itself? How are you planning on handling that? Surely not using Solas’ orb the way he intended to himself?” Her face went unnervingly blank as she turned her eyes to the sky.

“To do it _safely_ will take far more power than even Solas had in the end,” she said. “This was not supposed to have happened. I was meant to go much farther back in time—to claim the orb before…well. Plans have changed and the one regarding the Veil is being drawn as we speak. After we have secured the power we need, the people of Thedas must be warned. However it comes down, the worst part will be dealing with the Evanuris and everything else unleashed during that time.” Dorian nodded slowly. He was exceptional at magic theory. He could certainly help with the Veil.

“Is it entirely possible to do this without Solas’ help, if he is as…prominent a figure as he seems to be?” he said.

“We absolutely need him. We need all the help we can get to fight off a slew of god kings. Until then, the world needs _my_ people to protect them from Solas’ people. And I vowed to protect him—to change his mind.” She stood up straight, hands folding behind her back in a very _Solas-y_ manner. “Lives will be lost, no matter the path taken. But I know for certain far more will be preserved than if Solas’ plans were to continue unimpeded. This world belongs to us all and so long as I stand, I will see it remains that way.” He had heard many declarations of ambition before, from the Inquisitor himself to the ancient magister they were currently at war with and at least a hundred more from far less inspiring self-serving magisters. Yet here was this strange elf from another dimension standing before him in a sea of sand beneath the moon and stars making a quiet proclamation to save them all. One could find it laughable, when viewed like that. But he didn't. He saw a woman from a mythological time who had watched her people fall then fade from grace and glory. A woman who cared for every race despite the terrible treatment her own faced. He wished he had her strength. That brought him back to the matter at hand.

“Solas…as of now, how powerful is he?” he asked, dreading the answer. 

“Not strong enough to accomplish any of his plans right now,” she said. “That is why he is here.” She pulled a face, then eyed him critically. “Does it make sense why Yin cannot know yet? He—”

“Because he would actually kill you _and_ Solas, despite how strongly he feels for both of you,” Dorian sighed. “My _amatus_ is not as well-tempered as the one in that transcript. Not yet, at least. He has the same instinct as you, to save everyone that he can. It would break him now to know that all of this hard work to save the world is practically just a bandage on a limb doomed for amputation. Time, in this instance, is the answer for someone as passion-driven as Yin. Interfering might make that change for the worse. I do not say that lightly.” They were both quiet, somber. She shook her head at a private thought, eyebrows drawing down sharply. A small laugh escaped him. “Completely irrelevant, but, I just realised something,” he said. “I threatened an ancient elven legend. And I have no desire to apologise. You think he’ll hold onto that?” She gave him a look that could have meant anything. “All aside, I _hope_ you at least see it from our perspective, Yrja.”

“Maordrid,” she corrected. “That is who I am. Your friend. A terrible one, I know. But…you’re very dear to me, Dorian.” She was too good at looking pathetic. Being an adorable elf definitely lent to her ability. But this time, he wasn’t going to let it slide. Holding onto a sliver of anger would serve as a reminder…and keep him prepared for any other mishaps in the future. 

“Would you mind translating a bit of elvish for me?” he said, remembering something that had been bothering him for far too long. She waited, but he gestured for the book. When she relinquished it to him, he flipped to the back where he had slipped in a few pages of notes. He'd written the words down some time ago but had never quite found a good opportunity to find their translation. He handed it back, pointing to the phrases he'd likely butchered. 

_Ar (or was it var?) rozem suledeen. Ar drua, ~~irr'yah~~ (note: a name?)._

_Shivana ish. Dirth’asha, sathan. Tel lie masha._

Maordrid's brows pinched together, lips moving silently as she formed the words herself.

“May I ask from whom you heard these words spoken?” she asked, voice dropping.

“Translate first and then I’ll tell you,” he said. She sighed, tracing a finger along the ink.

“I believe this was meant to be _var rosem'suledin_..."

"Yes, that sounds right," he said and she nodded.

"It translates to 'We rose--or--endured'. Then, 'I had faith' or 'I believed in you'. Although, 'I trusted you' is another possibility." She paused at the word tagged at the end, lips pressing briefly into a pale line, then shook her head. " _Shivana ish_ —'I had a duty to him'. _Dirth’asha, sathan_ —'tell her, please'. _Tel’laimasha..._ 'undefeated...do not give up...do not lose...” She looked at him expectantly, but now he didn't want to answer. 

“In...the Redcliffe future...” he started and her face fell. “Did Yin ever tell you what we saw?” She shook her head.

“No, but you can.” He could, but he really didn’t want to. He crossed his arms, leaning to the side as he reluctantly recalled the nightmarish scene they had witnessed. 

“In that world, you had all been captured. Solas and Cassandra had been infected by red lyrium, but _you_ were corrupted by something else. Whatever it was made you forget how to speak anything but elven. They kept you in chains when the others had been put into cells." He swallowed, wishing he had brought his flask with him. "I went to free you—Solas tried to stop me. He was trying to warn us but wouldn’t tell us why, of course. There was a lot of elven spoken between you that even Yin didn’t catch."

"This was him, wasn't it?" she asked, pointing to the first phrase. "Irr'yah was meant to be Yrja, but you did not know that name." He managed a nod. 

"And those...were your last words to us," he said, indicating the final phrases, feeling sick. "Now that I know who and what he is...I'm sorry."

"Tell me how it ended," she said hollowly, staring at the page.

"When I managed to free you, you attacked him…and then you killed each other." Her eyes closed and a frown wrinkled her brow.

"That was not me," she said resolutely. "If I was not infected, then I was possessed. It is the only explanation."

"You're right, it wasn't you and there is no knowing what happened in the course of a year under Corypheus' captivity," he said. She nodded, but there was still pain writ on her face. "Would you explain _shivana ish_? You meant to Solas, yes? I get you care for him—” 

“Do not make me explain it,” she said with a sudden hardness to her voice, but he heard hurt beneath it. 

“You really should,” he urged.

She hunched her shoulders. “You know what happened to Elvhenan.” He nodded slowly. “I fought beside Solas in the Rebellion. I was an ally of his.” She scoffed, face twisted with an expression he knew himself all too well. Self loathing. He sighed.

“The book neglected to mention you…worked with him, though I suppose that should have been obvious,” he said.

“There is more to it, but I would rather not make you hate me just yet. Afford me that, at least,” she said without looking at him. For once, he didn’t want to know what she was holding back. “Just know that I am here now with the Inquisition, fighting for the same cause. That is what matters.”

“Fine. I think we’re done then. We should get back to camp before Yin notices I’m gone.” She nodded in agreement, arms wrapping once more around her frame. They returned in silence side by side but far away in thought. 

Even though he felt much of the mystery shrouding her mission had been cleared through reading the transcript, she was still an enigma. Iron Bull’s non-discrete inquiring into her abilities had certainly raised another question that he was too afraid to ask. How powerful was she? With thousands of years of experience behind her, how much could one’s ability truly change? Was she anything like those so-called Evanuris, the supposed god kings of her time? And if she wasn’t, could she be? Solas didn’t look anything like what he had previously imagined a god to look like, but then again his abilities were apparently sapped due to _raising the Veil_. Yet another thing he was having a difficult time coming to grips with. He would look at future conversations with the man completely different in regards to magic. He’d always suspected there was more to Solas than what met the eye, but this was like wrenching one’s eyelids open with hot tongs. According to her, she had been awake since before the Veil. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the amount of knowledge and memories she must have to the point that he wondered if she superseded even Solas since he'd reportedly been asleep for ages. Yet, the man seemed to know everything about everything, which again showed just how little Dorian understood of elves. Conclusively, he found himself worrying after Maordrid's mental health.

As he laid down, he stared up at the peak of the tent while he experienced a very small existential crisis. He would hate to see Solas and Maori clash in the end—he’d already seen them kill each other in another future. The transcript said Solas had allegedly killed his oldest friend, Mythal. The details behind that had been foggy, but the notion spiked his fear for Maori, though she appeared unaffected by it. He could only assume there was more to it, as usual. Regardless, he hoped Solas realised the kind of heart he had ensnared. She was a woman that would willingly—no, eagerly—relieve him of his guilt, shame, and whatever else he happened to be carrying. In fact, Maordrid would shoulder the entire world and none of them would ever hear a peep of complaint until someone literally tripped over her corpse. She was the kind of person that believed she deserved the terrible things that happened to her and that _horrified_ him because he had no idea how to help her personally. _This is going to be a long and tragic journey. Worse than anything even Varric could ever conceive. And Maori has dragged me into the heart of it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not entirely happy with this chapter.
> 
> And a hundred apologies for making you all wait. I got quite busy in life.  
> I'm still behind. :(
> 
>  
> 
> Translation:  
>  _Bel'alan'en_ ="a thousand times more"


	74. Around the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter name:
> 
>  
> 
> **[Nugalope Spit, Fen'harel's Fish, & Wingless Dragons]**  
> 

  


The unexpected—yet peculiar—addition to the party seemed entirely natural, moreso than if they had brought one or two of the actual members of the inner circle. Their travel speed was diminished with the cart, but Maordrid ultimately was glad for the distraction the enthusiastic professor provided. Everyone wanted to talk to Frederic. They were practically reduced to impatient students in his presence, vying for the chance to ask questions of a professor that took far too long to give a single answer. The Orlesian was as sharp as he was aloof—a trait that he and Solas shared. Although, where Solas gave fluid answers, Frederic was eager to provide straightforward ones and was quite apologetic when the questions ventured into tenuous ‘guestimations’ as he called them. 

Overall, Maori was impressed by the mortal’s knowledge of dragons. She had a fairly decent understanding of the winged serpents. As in, she knew they had their own language and that prior to the Veil they had been the masters of the skies as the Titans had been masters of the earth. In her time, the Evanuris had guarded any knowledge surrounding that of dragons much in the way that they had hoarded power—greedily. Ghimyean had known a great deal more about dragons and she still kicked herself for not pressing him for that knowledge. The irony came in that in the Dragon Age, anyone was welcome to try their hand at learning without having to fear the wrath of an Elvhen ‘god’. Scholars just had to beware the dragons themselves. 

Of course, this particular scholar had caught the interest of the one man who had walked as a friend amongst the false gods themselves. Frederic did not seem to know too much about the relationship between dragons and magic, but he was well versed in their life cycles. Hunting patterns, to be precise. And even though the manuscript they had found in the still ruins was written in a long-dead language, the professor dedicated himself to trying to extract meaning from the many diagrams drawn within its pages. No one tried to stop him since there wasn’t much else to do while they rode across the sands.

She listened raptly when Yin finally broached the topic of Corypheus and his dragon, however. Frederic was terribly out of touch with events outside of his little milieu, though that was quickly rectified when Yin began describing the red lyrium monstrosity. The man cared little else for anything besides that. She didn’t blame him, it was complicated. The others debated amongst themselves about whether the creature was just a normal dragon infused with red lyrium or if it was a new kind of archdemon, since Solas immediately shot down the possibility of it being a real Old God—obviously since they weren’t facing a Blight.

Was it mind control? 

_Not likely, it seems like it has autonomy. It was by itself at Adamant, after all._

A bond, then, but is it mutual?

_Probably not at first. Although it seems Corypheus holds dominion over it._ Yin then began trying to correlate the behaviours exhibited by Corypheus’ dragon to that of the Abyssal, allowing Frederic to give some input. 

Could dragons be tamed? 

_Likely as much as any wild animal. They are intelligent beings that present differences in personality. Such as wolves, great cats, and birds of prey!_

That brought them right back to the nature of the bond. With Corphyeus it was clear that magic was involved. 

“If we surmise that dragons are similar to other predatory, intelligent wildlife, then why wouldn’t you be able to form a non-magic bond with one?” She had refrained from commenting on the subject until then. All of the questions she wanted to ask Frederic were ones she couldn’t vocalise in front of Solas or Yin.

“Like the Emerald Knights with their wolves?” Dhrui asked her.

“Assuming one could get within touching distance of a dragon without being eaten or turned to ash,” Dorian interjected. 

“A task that would be incredibly difficult, considering that they are almost always searching for food when away from their nest,” Frederic agreed.

“But not impossible?” Maori hedged. The professor lifted an ink-stained finger to his lips, flinging a few droplets from the pen gripped in his hand. 

“I should like to say nothing is _truly_ impossible…” he answered slowly.

“Perilously difficult, then,” she settled with. The ginger-haired Orlesian nodded brightly.

“Indeed!” He glanced down at the small notebook he had open beside the ancient Tevinter tome. “I fear I am quite lacking in the field of magic, but I would say that a mage might have an easier time accomplishing such a task. One would of course need a way to calm the dragon, although I suppose even a non-mage could do so without a spell. Perhaps lacing the dragon’s food with a tranquiliser? When I was able to look into the Abyssal’s stomach I did note a strange cud mixture of elfroot and felandaris…”

“Aw, she had an upset stomach?” Dhrui said sympathetically. Frederic gave a painfully polite chuckle.

“Or trouble sleeping,” he said, “Jokes aside, yes, either a troubled stomach…or indigestion.” Maori leaned forward in her saddle and scratched behind Rasanor’s ears, thinking.

“Elfroot _can_ help with sleep, we know this. Felandaris, if prepared by mode of high heat—just shy of turning it to ash—can induce a more lucid dreaming. Although it almost always attracts demons in my experience,” Maori said. “Ingesting lyrium is the preferred method for non-Dreamer mages, as I’m aware. But for a dragon? Is it so farfetched to believe that our girl may have been trying to Fadewalk?” 

“Do dragons dream?” Yin wondered in awe. Even Solas looked thoughtful. For once, she thought she might have an answer he didn’t. Yet, she kept her silence. There would be other less self-incriminating opportunities to share. Maybe.

“ _That_ would be an interesting subject of study,” Frederic said, sounding equally as fascinated.

“A shame that _someone_ killed her.” Yin shot her a flat look.

“There _are_ more dragons. There was one in the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast, if you’re so determined to get close to one, Maori,” he said. Frederic shifted on the back of his wagon, curious blue eyes finding her. “Oh, yes, Professor, did you know she refuses to kill dragons? She might be a better candidate for your draconic studies.” 

“Inquisitor! You did not mention you knew the locations of others? What I would give to observe them!” Yin was studying her again with a contemplative look.

“Perhaps I shall send you two on an expedition one of these days,” he remarked with a grin. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered, excited, or worried. 

“You would send me away, Inquisitor? I must admit, the prospect of leaving your side makes me uneasy.” He tossed a hand and faced forward on Narcissus again.

“It would not be until later anyway. Maybe the week of Satinalia—that is, if the world doesn’t decide to end then. We will play it by ear,” he said. “We _do_ need some time to catch up on other research.” Frederic practically bounced from the cart with excitement. 

“Splendid! We shall have a merry time and learn so much! What is your name again Lady…?”

“Just…Maordrid is fine,” she said with a sigh. It could work to her benefit if no one else from the inner circle accompanied them. But if Yin decided to send someone like Bull with her then they might as well not go at all. It was times like these when she wondered what it would have been like had she stayed more incognito as a spy rather than the ‘Inquisitor’s mentor’ or whatever it was they called her. 

Later on, when the party had apparently travelled a little over thirty-five miles that day—though the landscape would have them believe they’d gone nowhere—she found that Frederic was just a tad too eager. She was busy rubbing down the mounts for the night when the man quite literally bumped into her with his nose in a book. 

“ _Veuillez m’excuser!”_ he exclaimed, a hand shooting out to steady her. He quickly yanked it back, bowing apologetically. “I gravely underestimated your distance from the cart! Ah, I am notorious for running into students and colleagues alike at the University.” She raised a brow, eyeing the red-bound tome in his hand. _Flora of the Thedosian Deserts._

“If we are to expedition together in the future, I hope you will not be doing that to our subject during the studies,” she remarked without tone. Frederic laughed nervously, rubbing the lobe of his ear. Without his ridiculous mask, he wasn’t terrible to look at as far as humans went. He’d a jutting chin, a prominent nose, and his reddish hair was dark with sweat, but his lips never seemed to be without a smile. He reminded her of a stone bust one might find serving as a book end, half forgotten in a library, sort of just part of the background. A muscle in her cheek twitched as she awkwardly turned to continue brushing Dorian’s impatient Equinor.

“O-Oh, that should be of no trouble, my Lady,” he said with a slight bow. She dropped her hands to her sides, scowling.

“Maordrid. I am not nobility,” she insisted, though judging by his character it was a futile request.

“I must ask, earlier when the Inquisitor mentioned your affinity for dragons—”

“Yes, it’s true, I would rather not kill them.”

“Beg pardon, my Lady—” There was a brief, painful pause, “Mwah-drid?”

“Close enough.”

“Dragons are _very_ territorial. I was simply wondering how it is we might avoid detection?” She glanced furtively across the small camp. The others seemed properly distracted by the nightly duties. Equinor tried to stomp her foot at that moment. She cursed at him in Tevene and shoved into her pocket for one of the sugar cubes Dorian had given her. The Warmblood snuffed her palm in a primly manner and accepted the block between his lips, content to ignore her for another five minutes. 

“I _am_ a mage,” she started slowly, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Spells and whatnot.”

“Ah, so I should not bother with looking into sedatives?” He began closing his book. 

“It would not hurt. Knock yourself out,” she said, though it seemed the humour went right over his head. Or under it, in her case. She rubbed at the skin between her brows with a mirthless laugh under her breath. “You need not worry about issues involving how to approach the dragon. I will protect you. _You_ can focus on your studies…or writing, whichever it is you are conducting.” The scholar blinked, then looked her up and down as one might a bizarre specimen.

“A mage, you said?”

“An Arcane Warrior, in the common tongue,” she said, this time not hiding her annoyance. She realised his odd blank stares were his version of scepticism. He scratched his scalp, still staring. 

“Perhaps being small will allot you an advantage over them,” he murmured, seemingly to himself. She was just about tired of hearing about how bloody small she was. Because she really wasn’t. Yin and Dhrui were both taller than her. She avoided standing next to them for that reason. But then Solas was also tall, like nearly all the Elvhen were. She  definitely reached Solas’ chin. On a good day. _That_ was a problem because she liked standing next to him. They needed to bring Varric around more so more people saw him instead.

“In my time, hardly anyone cared about my bloody stature,” she grumbled aloud. “Give me my sentinel armour and you’ll see the height is made up in muscles and skill.” Frederic’s mouth fell open, a suitably perplexed expression twitching across his face.

__

__

“I—drat, I meant no offence, Lady Mawdrid! If the Inquisitor recommended you as a helping hand out of all the people in his organisation, I imagine it must mean you are very capable.” She bent to remove her brier from its pouch and shoved it between her teeth, casting the timid scholar a lidded look. 

“You think?” she muttered, patting Equinor and moving on to Alas’nir. Frederic hesitated before following her. After she removed his saddle, she shoved it into the man’s arms. He juggled it in an ungainly manner while he tried to tuck his book into a pocket, then stood far too close. Maori shook her head, grinning around her pipe as she gently guided him back a step. 

“ _Désolé_ ,” he muttered. 

“You are from Serault, Master Frederic?” she said quickly. He nodded three times.

“Formerly, yes.” She hummed, puffing on the brier as she lit it.

“Mm, there are some interesting tales surrounding that town.” She snapped her fingers at Alas’nir when he tried to sidestep away from her. He didn’t seem to like anyone other than Solas. But when she removed a bit of dried apple from her pocket that she’d seen Solas sneaking the hart, he showed interest. _I wonder if feeding the Wolf enough little cakes would appease his troubled soul_ , she thought with wry amusement.

“Ah, yes. It isn’t exactly the Chantry’s favourite place on the map,” he chuckled nervously.

“There was a cult, correct? Some…denomination of Andrastianism?” He looked surprised.

“You are Andrastian, my L—er, Maerdred?” _This man is a piece of work._

“Not at all. Just curious.” She noted the air of reluctance about him and tried not to snicker because that would certainly get her an ember in the throat. “ _Ir abelas_ , you do not have to talk about it. You can also put the saddle down. Sorry.” 

“No! I do not mind being helpful. And forgive me, I have not seen or spoken to many people in months, my manners have suffered as a result.” He cleared his throat, shuffling out of the way of Alas’nir when the hart tried to back his rump into the Orlesian’s shoulder. 

“You two! Food in five!” Yin shouted, his silhouette appearing at the edge of the camp. Her shoulders slumped; she still had the other few of mounts to tend. Shamun counted for two on his own. And it didn’t seem like Frederic was in any hurry to leave her either.

“Your manners are fine,” she lied. “Although that is coming from someone who has not had much contact with the civilised world in many years.” Frederic moved his gaze back to her, the glaze of aloofness on his face again.

“That means you are an apostate?” He seemed neither intimidated nor thrilled by the prospect. She settled with nodding. “It is no worry to me, _mademoiselle_. Curious, as you said.” She finished Alas’nir and moved onto Shamun who by far was the happiest to see her. His namesake had not been a misnomer. The oversized nug tried to prance, floppy lips immediately going for her face. She wasn’t fast enough to put a hand up and got a glob of nugalope saliva alongside her face. Peering grumpily at her company revealed the scholar to be hiding his mouth behind his hand. 

“I am going to feed you to the next dragon, nug,” she threatened him, but scratched the ridiculous thing behind his ear. 

“Evolution is truly amazing,” the professor said, holding his hand out to Shamun.

“Oh! Careful!” Too late, the nugalope waddled around and swiped out with a fore-hand, pulling the man off his feet. Maordrid laughed and hurried to grab him beneath his arms before Shamun could joyously trample him to death. Frederic clambered to his feet and she had to distract the great beast away from him again with a handful of treats, laughing all the while at the Professor’s bewilderment. She was surprised when the ruffled Orlesian started laughing with her. 

“Such personality this creature has,” he said, taking some of the dried grasshopper treats that Shamun delighted in. While Frederic occupied the salivating monster, she hurried to unsaddle and check him over for abrasions, chafing, and the like on his rough bronto-like skin. She was in the middle of pulling a few desert parasites free of his hind leg when a throat cleared behind her. 

“Did he eat all the grasshoppers?” she asked Frederic, tossing four scaly worms into the sand where she burned them.

“I believe the nugalope is still distracted. At least until he smells the stew,” a balmy voice said. She straightened and glanced over her shoulder to see Solas holding two bowls of said food. She smiled at him but shook her head in declination.

“I did not hear you approach,” she said, bending to twist the last bloodsucker free of Shamun.

“You were lost in thought. I called your name, after all,” he said, watching with amusement as she incinerated the disgusting bug. He made to offer the food again, but she held her hands out.

“I have nug blood and parasite guts on my hands, _lethallan._ ” She made a disgusted noise, wiping her nose on her arm. “Rasanor and Narcissus still need attention.” Solas leaned to the side slightly, eyes peering over Shamun’s rump at a sudden commotion beyond.

“You may need to rescue the Professor,” he chuckled as the nugalope let out a trumpeting noise and shambled forward.

“ _Again, Frederic?”_ she hissed through her teeth and darted around the behemoth just as the silly human got his arm sucked into the gummy mouth. _“Shamun, tel’math!”_ His watery black beetle’s shell eyes regarded her playfully, but he didn’t release the man’s arm.

“I was simply trying to test how he might respond if his food was picked apart rather than given whole!” Frederic exclaimed, tugging lightly on his trapped arm. 

“Does he seem the type of beast to pull wings off grasshoppers? Look at him, he just wants to suck on things,” Maori exclaimed. Frederic gave her a pathetically desperate look as slobber oozed around his arm. Shamun farted noisily.

“If I had realised he’d no teeth earlier, I might have made that connection—now may I please have my appendage back?” he begged. She looked over at Solas who had set their food down on a nearby crate of supplies and was now spectating as though he were sitting in a lecture, chin resting on his fist. Maordrid sighed and dug once more into the pouch within her pocket, withdrawing a fat grasshopper. Then, holding it aloft, she started whistling a Dalish lullaby. The nugalope’s grey ears twitched toward the noise, revealing their delicate pink inner shell. She nodded to him encouragingly, still whistling and holding his treat before her. Frederic’s arm slid free of Shamun’s mouth like the afterbirth of some eldritch creature. Fortunately, Professor had wisened up and hurriedly joined Solas at his safe distance. “ _Na tundras.”_ Shamun cocked his head at her words, but his lips puckered forward gently and instead of greedily inhaling the grasshopper and her entire arm, only took the insect and her hand. “That is progress, _falon._ Dhrui teaches you well ,” she said, patting his rounded nose and gently working her hand free as his tongue lapped at the food. Even once she was clear, Shamun felt it necessary to thank her with one last sloppy grasshopper-flavoured kiss. 

This was why everyone had begun fighting over who got mount duty these days. Dhrui was the best with the animals, but she was horrendously lazy and somehow rarely drew the short straw.

Maori turned and paced herself, walking across the sand to where Frederic and Solas waited. She wanted to say something to the latter, biting banter or maybe a passive aggressive remark, but opening her mouth would mean getting to taste the digestive saliva of a nugalope. No, he would not escape totally unsoiled. She gave him a tight-lipped smile, feigning a reach for her stew with her left while her right snapped out and grabbed the front-tail of Solas’ tunic that served perfectly as a napkin for her mouth.

“Uncalled for,” he quipped, yanking it away. 

“Your sacrifice was not made in vain,” she reassured him brightly. “How are you, Professor?” The man waved at her half-heartedly, still working ineffectually to clean his own arm. “I take it you will not join me at Rasanor’s side?” Frederic gave a polite laugh, but hesitated to give an answer. “I only jest. There is food, if you are interested.”

“I—yes, thank you, Mwahdrid,” he said, then scurried away while rolling his sticky sleeve up. When he was gone, Solas attempted to wick the saliva from his shirt with magic to no avail.

“ _Fenedhis lasa,_ this is like glue, Maori,” Solas hissed, gesturing to the small stain with a glare.

“Are you telling me you have avoided getting it on you during your duty?” she asked suspiciously. He froze with a flash of guilt but then abandoned his task in favour of inspecting the stew, failing entirely to imitate nonchalance. “My, my, has Solas been skirting his chores like a petulant _da’len_?”

“That uncouth creature deliberately tries to eat my clothes,” he defended. “ _After_ I have already provided it with copious amounts of treats.” She glared pointedly at him.

“So that makes him unworthy of care? You will set food out for spiders but the curious and utterly benign nug gets shunned for being a bit messy?” Solas met her gaze, this time fully composed. 

“Not the same,” he said coolly. She raised a brow, feeling a layer of mucousy liquid move with it. It was not lost on Solas either, but he was gracious enough not to bring it up.

“Still does not excuse completely neglecting an innocent animal,” she retorted. “It takes patience and practise, you know. The reward is worth it.” 

“Reward? I believe you and I have different definitions of the word.” Maordrid rolled her eyes, turning away from Solas and the food to finish her hart. Her ears twitched, picking up feather-light footfalls behind her. 

“You think I refer to the messy kisses and happy flatulence?” she said, stopping before Rasanor. She greeted him with a bow, to which the hart dipped his head. 

“You trained him,” Solas marvelled as she unbuckled the saddle from beneath her hart’s belly.

“He deserves more attention, but he is a good friend,” she said, scratching his shoulder fondly and giving him his own treat. Rasanor liked embrium flowers, but there were none growing in the desert, so he had to settle for some of the crystal grace Yin gave Narcissus. If a hart could glare, Yin’s Pride of Arlathan was the one to look to. She glanced at Solas, gesturing between Ras and Cissi. “They all remember your kindness—and your cruelties.” 

“If this is still part of your scolding for avoiding Shamun, consider me properly chastised,” the mage said in a flat tone. Making sure he had not brought the bowls with him, Maori slid her saddle off and dropped it happily into Solas’ arms this time. 

“Friends come in all shapes, sizes, and character ,” she said, resuming her care over Rasanor. “But one must be open to new and unexpected experiences.”

“That takes a measure of trust in strangers.” There was scepticism in his voice. They had certainly ventured into a realm of danger with this line of conversation, but she had walked right into it knowing full well where she was going. Regardless, she went to grab her brier again but realised she had been without it for quite some time. She panicked mildly, remembering that it had been knocked out of her hands while wrangling Shamun away from Frederic. Maybe she had been relying a little too much on the herbs for their focusing yet centring effect they had on her. _Perish the thought._

She took a shallow breath, knowing that Solas was waiting—judging. “As much trust as you might have when talking to a demon in dreams. It never hurts to listen. I find many people just want to be heard. So I take every chance I can to listen and help, if possible. And in doing so, I have learned that people should not be confined to a dichotomy of black and white. It is a spectrum—a symphony of harmonising sounds and parts, all beautiful in their own way.” She finished Rasanor and slipped him a few more petals of crystal grace before finally moving on to Narcissus. Solas helped her then to remove the stubborn hart’s saddle in a contemplative silence.

“Listening is a valuable trait.” He spoke slower than usual, as though he were taking the time to taste every individual word before it left his mouth. “You give people the benefit of the doubt, although I am not certain most deserve that kindness. Many would take advantage of your well intentions.” 

“Indeed, some have. But they have their reasons. Sometimes it is borne of fear or desperation—a sense of survival. I will not deny that it hasn’t gotten to me in the past. At the end of the day, I cling to the comfort that I have been in the position to provide that help.” She rubbed at her face where the nug slime was beginning to itch as it dried. “It is easier to do more now, with the Inquisition. They set a good example and I believe it is inspiring people to be better.” Solas gave her a faint smile as she fed Narcissus a few crystallised petals of the flower treat. 

“I hope you are right, _falon_ ,” he said, then glanced toward the camp where the others were sitting around a fire. Finally finished, Maordrid rushed back to Shamun with a magelight and found her brier lying beneath a covering of sand. Solas retrieved their food behind her and together they joined the others. Dhrui chortled shamelessly at the mess that was her face and Yin tossed her a rag doused in water.

“Take notes, Solas,” she said with a grateful nod at Yin before she scrubbed fiercely at her face.

“I _did_ bring you food,” he said, sitting down beside her with the now-cool stew. “You then proceeded to ruin my shirt.”

“Ruin? Solas, your entire outfit is a ruin,” Dorian snorted, shovelling food into his mouth.

“Please speak up, I cannot hear you over your outfit.” Maordrid choked out a small laugh while the others did so more openly. Solas radiated a pleased air, heating his food up with a gesture. 

“Shame Varric isn’t around,” Yin said while everyone tucked into their food. “Anyone have a good story?”

“Surely the Inquisitor has many grand stories to tell from his numerous adventures!” Frederic piped up with surprising earnestness. Overly polite mannerisms aside, Maori decided she liked the man.

Yin snorted, glancing up at the Professor, pretty dark brows bearing the weight of sarcasm. “My friends here have been part of the best ones. And anything grand I may have to share of the time _before_ all of this would be picked apart and exposed as truly boring by my precious little sister.” Dhrui brandished her spoon while chewing a mouthful.

“They can be the judge of that,” she said, thankfully having learned to swallow her food beforehand. “I’m sure he’s told you all about the time he rescued the lovely lady poet from falling off—”

“A sea cliff in Treviso. You were fresh out of a fight, too and barely had the strength to pull her up?” Dorian recounted. Yin just planted his face in his hands as Dhrui chortled.

“Wait, were there not demons in this story?” Solas suddenly asked without any hostility. If anything, he looked unsurprised. 

“Only my own,” Yin said, looking intimidated. Dhrui shifted forward, spreading her hands before the fire dramatically.

“It was an overcast, blustery day on the normally paradisiacal coast of Treviso. The clouds were bulging like a fat man in a brothel—”

_“Dhrui!_ ” Solas, Yin, and Maori cried, while Dorian applauded her for imagery well-done.

“The Clan was travelling through the area, you see, and they were unfamiliar with the land. With a wind galloping like horses and a light drizzle dusting the sails of the aravels, the elders decided to hunker down and brace for a hurricane. The hunters decided not to try their luck that night either, so it was rations for everyone. However, Yin, despite his penchant for telling fibs has always looked out for others. My brothers and I knew the surrounding areas well enough to know the fishing was good. A few nearby vineyards were preparing a harvest, too, so that comes into play as well—” Dhrui paused to whet her throat with her drink, grinning with her eyes at her patient audience. “So, Yin appealed to the elders that we three could get enough food to last us until the storm passed. I was to go alone to a few of the vineyards to barter for grapes or cheese while Raj and Yin took a net to catch fish.”

“I was under the impression that Yin did all of this alone,” Dorian said. 

“In a manner of speaking,” she said drolly. “He convinced Raj to search for healing herbs instead, because we were low on stores and there _was_ a fever going around. By this time, I had already spoken with a vintner about acquiring some of his grapes. I was to return with some of the muscle salves our hunters use for soreness and strains because picking grapes is actually strenuous work…”

“That is when he approached the same man and exchanged the Dalish healing tonics for wine?” Solas asked. Yin just shook his head with real shame. He remained mute, however. Maori was quite enjoying the direction the story was going and decided to clean her brier of grit while they continued.

“Well, the vintner was expecting _me_ but Yin told him that grapes would expire too quickly so we needed wine instead. A single bottle, to be exact.” 

“Dread Wolf take me,” Yin muttered. There was a very brief, very palpable pause that only four people detected. Solas pursed his lips and raised a brow, Dhrui twitched minutely, and Dorian took a swift drink off his flask. Maori grinned. “Leave it to Dhrui to make the simple fuck up of a young man sound like some cautionary tale—”

“You’re the one who embellishes it to the point that it’s a different story entirely!” she shot back. “How very Dalish of you, brother. Makes me wonder just how many of our stories share that commonality.”

“The actual quantity is…distressingly high,” Solas said. 

“And now you’ve got Solas all pissed at us again,” Yin said, tossing sand at Dhrui. 

“True or not, _I_ am interested in the rest of the tale,” Maori cut in. Dhrui gave her a seated bow.

“The _hahren_ has commanded and her _len’sila_ shall deliver,” she said, ignoring her brother’s fuming ramblings in Antivan. “Now. The vintner wanted salves, but Yin gave him a tonic instead with the claim that it was just a liquefied version of what he wanted. It was just a simple rejuvenation potion. Maybe slightly better than what could be acquired at the market in Treviso, but still. The vintner gave him a bottle of good wine and he was off to go fishing.” At this point, Maori finally managed to clean and repack her pipe. The spicy scent of the herbs masked the stink of dried nug spit and sweat. Even Solas turned when it wafted past him, which she took as a silent cue to pass it to him. “Alone and possessed of a net, wine, and what he thought was wit at the time, Yin reached a rocky shore nowhere close to a treacherous precipice.”

“And no poetess in sight either, I gather,” Dorian remarked, declining the pipe offered to him. Yin took it eagerly, nearly sucking the stem into his entire mouth in his haste.

“Nor demons,” Solas added. 

“The storm by now had begun to rile up the waters, but the rain had yet to show its true fury. At this time, I believe the guilt began to eat at my brother. Not only had he deceived everyone, he also couldn’t go back to the camp with a bottle or else _I_ would know. He also knew he couldn’t return emptyhanded.”

“Even knowing that, I drank the wine on an empty stomach,” Yin finished with a self deprecating laugh. “Tossed the bottle into the water, thought it might at the very least serve as a fish bauble.”

“Now he’s reasonably drunk and trying to catch fish in an oncoming storm.” Dhrui spread her hands with a grin. “Funnily enough, the bottle _did_ attract something. A baby otter!” Maordrid snickered and reclined on the sand. Her fingers jammed against something fleshy and realised Solas was much closer than she’d anticipated. His fingers entwined messily with hers, but she broke away before anyone could take notice. She settled back onto her elbows instead, heart fluttering. A glance at him revealed blushing cheeks. 

“This is where Cassandra gasps and Varric says something grunty about it,” Dorian said with a level of disenchantment. “Please tell me the otter is _not_ the stand-in for the woman?”

“The otter is most definitely the stand-in for the woman,” Dhrui confirmed. “The little thing wanted to play with the bottle and ended up caught in his net. Yin was torn between reeling it in to kill it for its hide, oil, and a couple strips of jerky—”

“But he’s a romantic, so he saved it,” Maori deadpanned.

“Yes, but it started raining and he slipped on the rocks trying to pull the net in far enough to cut it free,” Dhrui continued. “Thus, he fell into the water, drunk and tangled in a net with a baby otter that was now thoroughly terrified.”

“Sera now says, ‘ _But did you die?’_ ” Maori said in her best imitation of the elf. She was surprised when Solas snorted.

“Grossly accurate,” he commended.

“Close! He’s fortunate Raj and I are quick thinkers. I know Yin’s nature better than Raj and Raj is good at making connections. He put together that Yin had ordered him to do busywork so he could go deceive—”

“— _persuade_ ,” Yin corrected.

“—the vintner into a different agreement. With privacy a rarity amongst a nomadic clan and Yin being the eldest…and a mage…well, I think he was a bit desperate to get away, no?” The Inquisitor nodded morosely. “So, we made for the coast. Rain was coming down, the ocean was angry, and Yin was nowhere to be seen.”

“You two _heard_ me though,” he said.

“Aye, cursing loud as thunder! And we found him snagged by the net getting battered on the rocks. Somehow he’d freed the otter in all of that,” Dhrui said. “Bet you wished you’d kept that tonic for yourself, huh?” Yin rolled his eyes and surveyed his companions. “’Course, he’s still drunk when we pulled him out. The tall tale he gave us then started with Fen’harel and has evolved drastically over time.” 

“Let me guess, did you claim the otter in the water was Fen’harel in disguise, luring you to a watery death with cuteness?” Maori said, and beside her Solas shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek.

“I might have believed that version at the age I was then,” Dhrui laughed. “But no, how did it go, Yin?” He glared at his sister first before his face pinched into a focused expression.

“The twins were concerned about the food for the clan, above all else. A reasonable worry,” he said. “They were young…and about to go a few days without food until the storm passed. I was also young, drunk, and didn’t want them to see me as the complete idiot I was. So…I told them that I had been in the process of reeling in a small catch when Fen’harel appeared and paced the rocks, barring me from leaving.” At this point, everyone was listening intently. The flames of the fire seemed to burn more brightly beneath the Inquisitor’s emerald gaze. “ _’Fen’harel, you do not look well,’_ I said. _‘The game in this area is scant and I cannot hunt that which lives in the sea,’_ he told me. I had described to my siblings that the Dread Wolf was thin and I could hear his stomach growling even over the roar of the surf. To you non-Dalish, the Wolf is said to prey on spirits and elves. And here is a drunken Dalish First separate from his clan. What an easy meal, right? _‘If you allow me to pull in these fish, I’d be glad to share with you.’_ ”

“Does that not go against everything a First is taught to do?” Solas mused.

“My brother would agree with you. But I was Antivan first and I am my mother’s son. She would feed Fen’harel, the Forgotten Ones, and probably even an Archdemon if they showed up hungry and in need, then leave my father to boot them out after,” he said. “That woman was the embodiment of hospitality. She was compassion and my father was caution—they taught us both. So, in this fable of mine, I made him an offer, because what else did I have with the storm at my back and a hungry god at my front? In it, he sits and waits for me to bring in the net. There were a few fish, so I toss them over to him. And then as he’s retrieving them, a wave crashes up onto the rocks where I’m standing and the net gets yanked down taking me with it.” Yin sat back from the fire and regarded them all. “Then Dhrui and Raj appeared and rescued me.”

“You show him kindness and the god repaid you by walking away?” Frederic asked, aghast. Yin shrugged.

“He was not obliged to help me and neither did I expect it of him. I got myself into that mess to begin with,” he reasoned. “Raj still thinks that the Dread Wolf called the wave to kill me even though I hadn’t even thought to weave that into the story. If that had been the case, and I was Fen’harel facing the notoriously suspicious Dalish, I would have definitely done something similar to ensure I didn’t get an arrow or something in the back. Regardless, it was just a drunken excuse of a story I made up for my young siblings.” Solas was studying him with abject fascination, but no one was really looking at him besides her. Even so, she found herself peering at Yin with equal thoughtfulness.

“And your clan? What happened in face of the hurricane?” Maori asked. Dhrui smiled fondly at her brother.

“Raj and I caught a few fish before we lugged our brother back to camp. They all wanted to know why the First was all beaten up, but we didn’t want to stir up panic that the Dread Wolf was nearby or that Yin was drunk…so _we_ lied and said that he’d underestimated the wrath of the sea and was simply taken unawares.” The fire crackled and a log popped, the only sounds for a small while.

“Common mistake of a foolish youth,” Yin said, still embarrassed. 

“You do not give yourself enough credit,” Solas spoke up, “There are subtle morals and meanings within it that I think you are overlooking.”

“I admit, I know nothing about Dalish legends, but I found it quite enjoyable,” Frederic said, earning a small smile from Yin. 

“Yet he prefers to save foolish women from entirely avoidable predicaments in the stories he deems ‘better’,” Dhrui said. 

“I think our Inquisitor simply has different taste,” Maori said, casually wiping the stem of her pipe off when it finally made its way back to her. “He enjoys dramatic, romantic encounters that do not always necessitate deeper thinking. And that is perfectly acceptable.” Yin paid her a curious look.

“What sort of stories do you prefer, Maori?” he asked. “Better yet, I’m sure you’ve been withholding some good ones. I feel like I’ve never heard you tell one before.” He chuckled. “In fact, I expressly remember talking through the night of myself and never hearing a peep from you. On several occasions.” _Thrown to the wolves at last,_ she thought as every eye turned to her. She opened her mouth to say something but croaked instead. She chose to inhale some more smoke, allowing it to sharpen the world around her again.

“I am afraid I do not have any amusing stories about Dalish legends interposing on me while drunk.” She pointedly avoided Dhrui and Dorian’s gazes and took great interest in the motif of the pipe in her hand. 

“A deflection if I’ve ever heard one,” Yin said. She shrugged.

“I’d be curious to hear about your experiences with dragons,” Frederic blurted. 

Yin aimed his spoon at the man, eyes bright. “Now _that_ is a good start, my friend!” Maori sat up from her recline, draping her arms around her knees. “You cannot tell me you don’t have something to share on that subject.”

“Depends on what you are looking for. Amusement, suspense, information?”

“Why not all three?” Solas asked. 

“Because I am not as adept a storyteller as Varric or our other companions?” she said, but he didn’t look convinced.

Dhrui snapped her fingers. “What about a memory you are fond of?” Maori considered the girl while tracing her bottom lip with the mouth of her brier. 

“Fine. Dragons and fondness, an unlikely combination,” she said, then twisted her fingers at the fire, feeding it a thread of magic that turned the flames bright green. “There’s your suspense.” And then she took the moment to gather the proper words for the story. “Years ago, I found myself in the Donarks—”

“Eight words in and you’ve already managed to stress me out despite _knowing_ you survived,” Dorian immediately interjected. 

“A sentiment we can agree on,” Solas remarked.

“Yes, and forgive me, my Lady, but what madness possessed you to cross the Weathered Pass?” Frederic asked, eyes wide as they would go.

“You men gonna let her tell the story?” Dhrui snapped. Maori allowed herself a smug grin at their guilty expressions.

“I was one of six hired for protection by some particularly ambitious entrepreneurial dwarves,” she said. “Judging by your reactions, you know at least a little of the dark jungles beyond the Pass.”

“It is not even safe to venture there in the Fade,” Solas said and she nodded.

“Yes, even the spirits there are different. The Veil is thin as paper, possibly because the use of blood magic is prevalent there. They often imitate the creatures they see within the Fade. And it was not uncommon to find demons possessing flora and fauna alike.” Frederic was suddenly scrambling to retrieve a notebook and a pen, then rounded the campfire to plant himself in the empty space between her and Dhrui. 

“How fascinating. Is it true that there are things like chimeras and wingless dragons?” he asked, scribbling away already.

“As well as other beasts without names. Most are unapproachable. I recall something of a skinless horror that carried some wretched disease around it in a sort of miasma. One of the other mercenaries fell prey to it. His insides boiled out of his mouth.”

“How did you deal with the creature?” Solas asked. 

“Let me just say we did a lot of running. Little else was accomplished,” she said. 

“Maordrid running from a fight? That is difficult to envision,” Dorian mused. 

“Believe you me, I tried,” she assured him. “I could spend several days telling you all that I saw in that untamed place, but as it stands, this tongue lacks the proper words and I am a poor storyteller. So I will skip forward to the part where I encountered the wingless dragon.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, casting herself back to that time. “The day that happened was also the only time every person in our expedition had clarity of mind since entering the Donarks. We lost track of how many days we had spent in those jungles at that time. Worse, gaining a sense of direction was difficult even with a compass since the magnetic fields in the forest were bloody unstable. By then, tensions were high and our party had divided into factions. One wanted to forge on, determined to find a treasure to bring back. The second, predictably, was opposed to that and had been since the first mercenary’s death. The third was neutral. Unfortunately, the largest number lay with the first faction…” Maori unclasped the dented flask from her hip and drank. 

“Why didn’t you just leave?” Yin asked in a nigh whisper.

“I had made friends with one of the dwarves. The foolish man was also part of the faction that wanted to stay in the Donarks,” she said. “Also, how did you refer to yourself earlier, Inquisitor?”

“A complete idiot?”

“You may apply that to me as well.” There was a smattering of chuckles around the fire. “I was not without my own curiosities, peril be damned. Thousands of years of mysteries lie within those jungles and I had already travelled several hundred leagues more to get there. Also, I was a bit of a thrill seeker.”

Dorian arched an unruly brow. She realised even he was beginning to look a little travel-worn. “Was? Are you sure it’s past tense?” 

“Anyway. As I said, tensions were high. I was the only mage in the group and when things began to go awry, several began to point fingers at me. They thought _I_ was after the treasure for myself.”

“Typical,” Solas muttered.

“My friend decided that he’d had enough with the others and took off without telling me. Without him to bar them from slitting my throat, they were quick to run me off. No matter, if I could find my friend I thought perhaps we would be able to move at a faster pace without the constant opposition from the others. Alas, being so focused on following his tracks also allowed for something _else_ to find my own. Initially I attempted to face it but the creature was about twice the size of a giant and could use blood magic. So I ran.” 

“It wasn’t the dragon?” Frederic said, pausing in his notes to look at her. She shook her head, then caught a slight change in Solas’ posture. He’d turned himself in the sand beside her and was sitting crosslegged, drawing strange patterns in the sand between them while deep in thought. She wanted to look closer when she caught a familiar profile in it, but then he quickly smoothed it out to begin again. She cracked her neck audibly, trying to recall where she’d left off.

“I am not entirely sure what it was, but it chased me into a ruin. Well, actually I sort of fell into it,” she said. “Impaled my thigh on the way down.”

“This story would not be complete without Maori injuring herself in some way,” Yin said. 

“Don’t forget getting separated from her friends,” Dorian added.

“Hush,” she hissed. 

“Did your pursuer follow you down?” Solas asked.

“No. It screamed in what I presume was terror and fled the area,” she said. “I thought maybe it would come back to finish me off, so I lay there at the bottom of a strange rubble-filled chamber and waited quietly. The worst thing about being in a forest that is _never_ silent is when that suddenly changes. By then, I was exhausted, worried for my friend, and injured. One of those was immediately solvable. I stabilised the metal in my leg and dragged myself out of sight of the hole. Found a rock to lean against and decided to go to sleep, hoping to learn more about my surroundings in my dreams.” Beside her, Solas’ finger stopped in its path of completing a circle. She reached over and completed it, then drew her best approximation of a draconic eye around it, intersecting the circle with a vertical line. “That is when I learned that dragons do dream.” 

Frederic _actually_ squealed then. 

“Was it awake? I mean, aware of your presence. And if it was, was it hostile? What does a dragon dream of?” The curiosity must have reached its peak, as no one even made an attempt to stop Frederic’s rapid fire of questions.

“I believe this is the part where Varric gets sceptical and makes a wild guess that turns out to be uncannily close to the truth,” Maori said. 

“Lemme try,” Dhrui said and Maori couldn’t help but pause again to allow her to continue. “A wingless dragon would definitely dream of having wings.” It was Solas who scoffed, but when Maori looked at him seriously, the doubt shifted into disbelief, then disappointment.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Don’t look at me like I am responsible for what a _dragon_ dreamed of!” she exclaimed. 

“Wait, but you were inside of a ruin…” Yin started, but she cut him off with an upraised hand. 

“I fell into it. And so had the dragon. When I first slept, I was so surprised by what I saw that I woke up, only to find that the rock I fell asleep against had moved and trapped me against it.” Solas was the first to make the connection.

“The contact must have made it shift in its sleep,” he realised. She nodded.

“I suspected that as well. And it didn't move again, even when I beat at it. Anyhow, the poor thing must have been down there for quite some time because its scales were covered in mosses and lichen. Without the means to fly, it lacked the ability to escape the pit of the ruin. It went into hibernation to avoid death, I think.” Dorian crossed one leg over the other leaning against Yin with an amused expression.

“So now you are wounded and trapped beneath a wingless wyrm that has been dreaming for Maker knows how long. And your friend is still missing at this point.”

“Correct,” she said, drinking again. “I was also scared of going back to sleep, despite the Fade in the area being relatively quiet. It seemed the denizens of the jungle gave the dragon a wide berth in both worlds—”

“That does not necessarily mean you were _safe,_ ” Solas said.

“No, but it gave me the illusion of it. At the time, that is what I needed. When I decided to brave the Fade again, it was out of desperation. I had stayed awake for two days without food or water. My bandage was soaked through and I feared going septic with the metal in my leg. At this point, I could not even move to take the thing out.”

“Why not heal yourself?” Dorian asked.

“It is not a magic I ever learned. Attempting to summon even a simple spell is like trying to keep a candle lit against a winter wind. I _did_ improvise with a sort of stasis field, but that was fatiguing to maintain over time.”

“The dragon—you didn’t try to wake it up?” Dhrui cut in. 

“If the dragon went into hibernation, it is likely that in Lady Merdrid’s state the feat would have been impossible. That it moved in its sleep at all is a feat in itself,” Frederic answered for her. 

“Drained of magic, the Fade became my last hope of escaping,” she said. “Once I finally went back to sleep, I was forced to confront the dragon. The situation was dire, but not in the way that I had previously expected. The creature was quite clever. In hibernating, it seemed to have entered a sort of draconic version of Uthenera. There, it could dream safely without having to worry about starving to death. Its metabolism must have slowed in this state, biding itself time to search for a way out. However, it was not particularly skilled at manipulating the Fade and at some point had given itself a pair of wings. Sadly, it did not understand how to use its new appendages and I suppose it sort of worked itself into a blind panic, so it did not notice when I had joined it.”

“Incredible. It demonstrated problem solving! Or at least, tried to,” Frederic gushed. He was leaning forward uncomfortably close to her. Knowing him, he was completely unconscious of it. Scooting back would destroy Solas’ pretty little sand drawings, so she stayed put. 

“It certainly tested my own problem solving abilities,” she laughed.

“You needed only to coax it into shifting enough to free you. Did you not think to wake it up forcefully? A blade or more offencive magic?” Solas asked.

“And risk it lashing out and potentially killing me?” He blinked at her, then dipped his chin in a slight nod.

“Fair point. Continue.”

“It was an intelligent creature, that much I already knew. Admittedly, what I decided to do was not the wisest nor easiest course of action. Then again, when have I ever taken the easiest route?” She smirked at her friends’ exasperated expressions. “I tried to get its attention in the dream. I originally attempted to alter our environment but the dragon had been trapped in this loop of fear and panic for so long that the Fade refused to change much at all. Throwing stones and shouting did nothing. And eventually I began to lose hope, so I sat and watched it for a while. Thus I learned patience is a good friend to make.” Maori crossed her legs and decided to check on Solas’ sketches again. Starting at the eye, he had moved onto creating a ridiculously detailed mural. He seemed to be attempting to illustrate her story as she went. He glanced up at her prolonged pause and gave her a tiny, bashful smile. She returned it, then looked away. “The dragon had a pattern. It would thrash around with its wings for hours, sometimes lifting itself into the air but always returning to the ground. It tried breaking pillars, clawing the walls down, breathing fire…then it would stop very briefly to flap its wings in an uncoordinated manner while staring up at the hole in our prison. It was then that I saw my own opening.” Her smile grew and a small laugh escaped her. “Please do not write this down, Professor.” 

“Oh, do we finally get to hear an embarrassing part?” Yin asked, looking hopeful.

“I suppose it is only fair,” she drawled, but was glad when the Orlesian at her side set his pen down. “It was during one of these hiatuses that I approached it. At first, it did not respond kindly. Fire breathing and swiping at me with meat hooks. I was fortunate that the wings worked against its attempts to kill me. I managed to get on higher ground where it could not reach me and…well, I did this.” She spread her arms like a bird and slowly moved her arms as she would when flying. “The idea was to calm it enough that I could gain some control over the dream and try to communicate with it. I also surrounded myself in small flames to hold its attention.”

“You taught a dragon how to use its wings?” Dorian asked, flabbergasted. Looking at Solas made a hundred little wingless dragons rage beneath her ribcage. One corner of his lips was pulled up and his slate-blue eyes were partly narrowed. The pieces were beginning to fall in place for him—a reflection of their earlier conversation. 

“Precisely,” she replied. “And how to control its dreams, essentially.”

“Varric says, ‘Dreams are weird. Elves are weird. This shit is all sorts of weird,’” Yin said in a perfect imitation of the dwarf’s voice. “What happened next?”

“It did not calm down all at once. After all, the poor beast had likely been trapped there for a year, maybe more. It was traumatised. But I had nowhere I could go and I had seen something far too interesting to give up then. So I spent an uncounted amount of time positioning myself in visible spots whenever it stopped fighting itself. Eventually, those moments got longer and longer. The dream became less rigid, but I did not cease the sessions until it learned how to fold its wings. In turn, I learned about fire signals. When it was upset or frustrated the fire was as you imagine—uncontrolled, vermilion. Then there was the green fire that you see now. I believe that was its way of telling me it understood. When it was pleased, it used veilfire. So, at the very end, I carefully shifted the dream to form a sort of ramp out of the ruin and trailed green fire up the path, punctuating it with veilfire. I walked up through the hole and waved my arms again. That’s when we both woke up. It nearly broke my leg, moving away from me in the waking world but I was finally free.”

“That’s not the end, is it?” Dhrui asked. Maori smiled.

“No. I made a silent promise to the dragon that I would see it free,” she said. “It was the least I could do, since I had failed my other friends.” Maori placed a hand over the spot on her thigh where the scar tissue was. “I was not out of danger yet. The dragon was understandably agitated upon waking up. Hungry and still trapped in that damn hole, I was the nearest thing to it…and to a giant, furious lizard, food is food. So I pulled the metal from my leg, cauterised the wound, and fled up through a tunnel carved by water too narrow for the dragon. I lost most of my armour and half my clothes from the stream of fire it belched after me. But anyway, I made my way back to the hole where I had fallen through and stood there until it came back to the main chamber. I repeated the same arm-flapping that I had in the dream and summoned those special flames. It took some time for it to recognise me, but it did. Then I collapsed part of the structure and formed a ramp for it.”

“Maker’s breath! Did it try to eat you?” Frederic cried, hand moving in a blur across his notebook. 

“No,” she breathed, still in disbelief. “We stared at each other…and then it left me alone. I still must occasionally stop to this day and truly marvel at nature’s ability to simultaneously mystify and scare me witless.” She looked up at Yin, picking nervously at the grains of sand beneath her fingernails.

“What happened to your friend? The dwarf?” Dorian asked. 

“I found him in another part of the ruin, but he was never quite the same. We managed to find the others but they cast me out when they saw how addled he was.”

“After all of that?” Dhrui gasped angrily and Solas looked to agree with her, but Maori shrugged again.

“They did give me supplies and left me with my life. At the time, I could not have been more grateful for rejection because it released me from the duty I’d pledged myself to. I left the Donarks immediately and have long since forgiven them.” Following her long-winded tale, she was awed by the way that her companions could also manage to make silence seem _loud_. 

“You should tell more stories,” Yin decided. “Between you, Solas, and Varric…Gods, imagine the novel that would come of a collaboration.” 

“Dragons, spirits, and heroes saturated in bad luck?” Maori said, accepting an offer of water from Solas. “No one would want to publish it for fear of being shamed into oblivion.”

“I think your stories would be better recorded as ballads backed by song,” Solas remarked with a sly grin. 

“Sung by a poetess like the one Yin rescued?” she teased.

“ _I was thinking of a muse whose heart is as fierce as it is compassionate. Her mind contains a fathomless beauty that only her tongue is suited to properly convey,”_ he replied smoothly. 

_“I am sure you can find such a woman in Val Royeaux,”_ she said, twisting her fingers again to change the colour of the fire back to normal. When she set her hand down again, the tips of his fingers pressed against hers, hidden beneath the sand. He may as well have shocked her. His touch had such an annoying effect on her. It was impossible to think and different parts of her went frustratingly weak. And she _liked_ it. _Disgusting. Keep doing it,_ she wanted to tell him.

“I must confess, Lady Mwahdrid, that I am looking forward to an expedition with you even more,” Frederic said, getting to his feet and closing his notebook. He offered his hand to her, the action of which would have been incredibly awkward if Dorian, Yin, and Dhrui weren’t all getting to their feet as well. Maori accepted his help and tried to ignore the way that Solas’ gaze seemed to burn their joined hands. It did not help when Frederic held on just a _tad_ too long. 

“Yes, well, that should be…well!” she said, tucking her hands into her pockets. “I take it your findings for tonight were bountiful?” The Orlesian nodded, flipping through the pages as though they were made of gold.

“Very much so. I cannot express the sheer admiration I have for your dedication to pursuing knowledge. Listening to you recount such an experience was…inspiring! I felt as though I were almost living it.” Maori smiled and gave him a slight bow.

“Thank you, Professor. I am glad to have been of some help,” she said. The man returned the bow and then bade her a good night before leaving her, practically skipping all the way to his little wagon. Maori let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and stooped to toss another log onto the fire. Yin and Dorian were next to retire, disappearing into their tent while chattering loudly about the Donarks and blood magic. Dhrui joined her seconds later, twisting her fingers in an attempt to change the fire again. 

“Was any part of that untrue?” she asked.

“You mean embellished?” Maori snorted. “I might have omitted the part where my shirt and breastband were actually burned off entirely.” Dhrui clapped a hand to her shoulder with a gasp.

“You didn’t go back to your group exposed like that, did you?” the girl asked. 

“My dwarven friend did not seem to mind me relieving him of his own shirt,” she said. Dhrui shook her head, muttering something unintelligible in Antivan before heading toward her tent without another word. Maori stayed at the fire’s edge and stared into its heart even when it outlined _his_ tall form. “Did you finish your sand mural?” Her lips quirked into a smile at his pleasant chuckle.

“I did.” She reached out and scooped a handful of fire out of the pit, then used it to find his temporary masterpiece. She stood before it in awe as the image seemed to shift with movement in presence of the flickering flame. He’d drawn out the key parts of the story in lovely imagery. Somewhere along the way, he had built a bestial face around the eye they’d drawn together. From its maw erupted a breath of flame that gave birth to the rest of the story. She was represented as a raven in most of it—pinned beneath the talon of the sleeping dragon, then flying above the winged serpent in the dream; another showed her perched upon a column with her wings upraised, the dragon below mimicking her pose. The final showed two winged figures flying free of a ruin. He’d even included a few extraneous scenes of her as an elf, sword and shield upraised while a crowd of faceless people gathered behind her. In another, it was just her profile staring into the void. Below, nearly separate from it all, was an elf reaching out to a wounded wolf. The sand was more disturbed around it as though he had begun to erase it and then stopped. 

“It is a shame this is all temporary,” she said, feeling a pang of sadness. “You have a beautiful mind.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You should not feel remorse for crude drawings in the sand. It is the penultimate part of my process.” She tore her gaze away from the mural to look at him. 

“You are going to do it again?” she asked.

“That is generally how I work, yes. Normally I would envision it in the Fade and then upon waking, translate it into a more permanent medium,” he said. “However, I find myself spending less time there.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said. 

“Don’t be. I met a challenge trying to find the most efficient way to keep a physical record of drawings and notes. I might have gotten carried away once or twice.”

“You are aware that there are sketchbooks for such things?” she said with a small grin. He tilted his head with a slighted look.

“It _is_ difficult to acquire one with proper binding. Paper is not cheap,” he said. She glanced at the sand mural again.

“What had you used before you stopped utilising the Fade?” she wondered. “Wait a moment, are you the one responsible for decorating the back of your cabin in Haven? And a few of the tables in Skyhold?” 

“Don’t tell the Ambassador.” The mischievous grin he gave her made her stomach knot. And now there was an awkward pause that had her wringing her hands. He cleared his throat. “Your…story tonight. It was equal parts enthralling and concerning. Your ability to get yourself into trouble and work your way out of it never ceases to be amusing.”

“Pleased that my struggles provide a form of entertainment. I would have preferred to face laughter and bad jokes upon my return from Adamant.” She dared a glance at Solas who turned beside her, body a stiff line.

“I did not say _I_ found it amusing. The last thing on my mind is laughter upon seeing you place yourself in the path of danger. To learn that you have been doing it long before…” She winced at the slight tinge of anger in his voice. Somehow, she always managed to piss off those that mattered most. “I confess, I am less than pleased to know that you will be roaming the countryside in search of _winged_ dragons with a man woefully unequipped to deal with such threats. All while the rest of us will likely be sitting warm and well fed during a festive week in Skyhold.” She narrowed her eyes and gave him her best frown. 

“You insult a man who is not present to defend his own honour? You do not know if he can stand his own ground,” she hissed, squaring her feet to Solas’.

“He carries no weapons,” he insisted. The shadows cast by the fire shifted to sharpen the angles of his cheeks and nose into something fiercer. “ _You_ , as usual, will be doing the dirty, gruelling work. I am sure he will take every chance to watch you carve a path for him.”

“We all have our places in this fight, Solas. He is to study the dragons—I am to protect him. Would you say the same of the Inquisition’s healers, cooks, and servants that do not see battle? You are beyond pettiness, so quit it,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. A pocket of heat formed between them where her anger was mixing with his own. Solas inhaled through his nose, eyes transfixing like molten points onto the digit in his sweater.

“I am not referring to the workers at Skyhold!”

“Oh? Then enlighten me,” she said, crossing her arms. He clenched his fists at his sides.

“You!” he exclaimed, then glanced toward the cart lying beyond the firelight. “ _Him._ ” When it finally dawned on her she thought a bolt of lightning had struck down from the black skies. _She_ was unequipped to deal with such matters. She had always been so oblivious. And then she was angry all over again that he would insinuate—

“You think I would…what, _lay_ with him? Is that what this is about?” She wanted to shake him. Instead she laughed hysterically. “ _Quel bordel._ Your worries are misplaced. ”

“I disagree. As your friend, I am concerned for your wellbeing. He is clearly interested after only a day spent in your company. Even if you should rebuff another’s advances politely, they may not take refusal with grace. And while I do not doubt your ability to defend yourself, there are times when even the strongest can be taken advantage of.” The fight drained out of her like a wine barrel shot with holes. She averted her eyes to the sand—his mural of _her_. How was it possible that he could turn almost every situation on its head? There was always some angle that she neglected to see herself. “I am sorry. You were right, this…is quite a mess. I did not mean to overstep.” Hesitantly, she reached forward and gave his wrist an affectionate squeeze, then withdrew quickly.

“No, forgive this brute of a woman for being so shortsighted,” she said. “You only gave voice to a difficult truth.” Solas rubbed his wrist, then ran his fingers along his own palm.

“I am known to do that.” She smiled faintly.

“Though…as one last defence—and a bit of a reminder to myself—instead of trying to see the best or worst in people…maybe try not to expect anything at all. I find myself facing far fewer disappointments that way,” she said. She didn’t always follow her own advice, but who keeping count? Maori rubbed her sunburned, salty face, looking longingly toward their tent. 

“Your mind is as wondrous as the Fade,” he remarked. She blushed, picking at the ridges of the pipe still clutched in her right hand.

“I will not swoon.” That was the wrong thing to say. Oh, how he drove her mad.

“Is that a warning? I will catch you.” He took a step closer.

“Solas, I swear—”

“You do that a lot.”

“Yes, because it seems I forget how to act around you. I am unused to it and I keep embarrassing myself.”

“Permit yourself to _feel,_ Maori. There is more strength in that than I think you realise.”

“Allowing it to show is entirely different and not always appreciated by others. You saw part of it in the raw Fade.”

“ _I_ appreciated it.” Maori zapped herself with static, startling him. “Why did you do that?”

“Do you see any cold water in the vicinity?” Solas laughed quietly.

“I know a spell…”

“I don’t want your bloody spells all over me!” The blush came back tenfold. “That—oh, _that_ came out wrong—” She froze stiff as ice as Solas placed a hand against her cheek and kissed her forehead. It was cool where he touched. She detected a faint spell on his lips and palm.

“ _Atisha,_ Maori,” he said, stepping back. She continued to be momentarily robbed of words, pressing her fingertips to her cheek, then her forehead. 

“Yes. Peace. I think…I’m going to go meditate. Probably on revenge or something,” she decided. She met his eyes defiantly and then stalked past him toward the tent. She paused one more time, half-turning back to him. “I appreciated that. You. Specifically you. Good night.”

“ _Atisha hamin,”_ his amused voice chased her into the tent and settled on her ears and cheeks warmly. Oh, he would pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Veuillez m’excuser: please accept my apologies_  
>  Désolé: sorry  
> tel'math: not food!  
> na tundras: be gentle  
> len'sila--student  
> Quel bordel-- what a mess
> 
> Note:  
> Thank you all for giving me feedback! Sorry for using this as a message board, I just sort of panicked last night. This was a spontaneous chapter that hadn't existed until about 9am yesterday!  
> I cannot thank you all enough for your support <3


	75. The Path to Perdition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to like fifty different songs writing this to achieve near maximum anguish...  
> but I decided ultimately not to put any here. I did listen to a lot of World of Warcraft though. Sooo good. Like. Any of Jaina's songs.

As the days stretched on, everyone began to find an equilibrium with one another. Even those that weren’t the fondest of each other—namely the Tevinter and the ancient rebel in their midst—had found semi-common ground in exchanging barbed quips and civil conversation. Dorian was at least trying to get along with Solas but he was frustratingly stubborn to play friendly. Eventually, Dorian did find that Solas responded well to topics regarding magic—so long as he didn’t bring Tevinter or Elvhen matters into conversation. Dorian seemed to be trying to goad him into revealing the ancient mysteries of magic that Solas was hoarding. The most complex being how best to cast strong spells with the least amount of effort. And since Dorian was renowned for doing quite the opposite, Solas took the bait and was far too eager to throw Madame Vivienne under the carriage wheels — _she frontloads her barriers_ , he’d said with subtle distaste—using her as an example a time or two as things a mage ought not to do…never once attempting to disparage Dorian despite their previous tensions. 

There was also the strange nature of friendship that Maori had continued to cultivate with Professor Frederic. He routinely joined her after the day spent riding—always whenever she happened to choose the short straw…which was a lot. She was perhaps the filthiest out of everyone in the end. Frederic either had a poor sense of smell or an even poorer taste in company. He practically attached himself to her after the night she had regaled them with the tale of the wingless dragon, always asking questions. And when she thought he couldn’t possibly ask anymore, he managed to prove her wrong. At first it had been annoying, especially during the times that she was supposed to be caring for their mounts because if Frederic was there, the chore took twice as long. He grew on her like a callous—sometimes he was annoying and other times he was fun to pick at. The conversations remained largely academic and on occasion she sneaked in a more sensitive question or hypothesis regarding dragons. He was a font of enthusiasm, always pleased when she chose to ask him anything. 

But beyond Frederic, she had her other friends. Early in the mornings, her and Dhrui rose and trained. They would run laps and if they had time, they practised hand to hand combat. After one session, Yin approached her angry that she hadn’t invited him along—what ensued was half a day of postponed travel while the two of them sparred with their spirit blades until he was satisfied. As a wind down no matter where there were, Maori went through meditative forms without blade, spear, or staff, generally by herself at the top of a dune. She was alone until she wasn’t—Solas took interest in the slow, pensive movements and joined in. The first time, he followed her lead to near perfection as though he were already familiar with the movements. The second time happened while they were breaking for lunch near a small oasis in the desert. It was one of the rare times she had foregone her armour entirely, stripped to leggings, a sleeveless top and bare feet. He had followed suit and joined her at the water’s edge where he introduced her to one of his own forms. 

There was no speaking, only a silence of serene concentration. _Atisha._ Her breathing and his. The whisper of clothing as it shifted around carefully relaxed muscles. Sun-warmed sand beneath her feet and a sheen of sweat along her arms and brow. _Vir’elgar’dun_ —the path between spirit and body. As a Somniari, the meditation had the potential of phasing one between waking and dreaming if done properly without truly needing to go to sleep. The practise was meant to make it easier to access magic. It worked by submerging one’s spirit within the Fade—in a daydream-like state—and emerging from it had the effect of a paintbrush dipped in viscous paint. The liquid in this case being magic and the paintbrush the Fadewalker. The technique in itself was something she had never successfully mastered herself, but she did enjoy the movements. She was not surprised when it was brought up by Solas at the end of their second session. They were sitting with their feet in the pool while the others were across the way watering the mounts and doing their best to wash disgusting clothes.

“I failed to ask you the first time about the _vir’elgar’dun_ ,” he said, wetting his hand to wipe sweat from his face. “You use it as a way to focus your mind and relax your body. Did you learn it in the Fade, observing spirits? It is an exceedingly rare practise.”

“When I first began undergoing training as _ena’sa’melan_ , it was one of the first things my mentor taught me. I’ve been neglecting the meditation itself with everything that has been going on. Foolish really, since it seems to make accessing magic much easier when I do,” she said. Solas nodded, pleased.

“He…or she must have known it was an ancient Elvhen technique,” he said.

“It.” He looked at her, face dripping with water. “Although it tends to appear as a he.” _Shan’shala, I called him._

“A…spirit taught you?” 

“Is that so surprising? My mentor is an ancient spirit of Protection that has presided over my little village since time immemorial.” No one had ever looked at her as he did now, but she had seen the expression on others before when a particularly valuable relic had been discovered. His gaze pinned her like an insect in a mounting box and she could not look away. She felt like her insides were slowly dissolving in the acid of guilt.

“It is, and isn’t, now that I think about it. And it makes sense even though I had not made that connection beforehand. The very way you move always did seem familiar to me.” She took a turn with splashing her face, then dried off with the hem of her shirt. “I find it inspiring that so much talent has flocked to the Inquisition. Even Dhrui revealed to me recently an ability she has that allows her communicate on a deeper level with animals.” He snorted, shaking his head as he looked at his hands pressing into the sand. “Should Frederic learn of it, I fear he may attempt to recruit her for your future expedition. I would not be surprised to see you return with a handful of trained dragonlings heeding the command of Dhrui Lavellan.” Maori huffed a laugh at the ridiculous image of her _da’len_ herding an infant gaggle of flightless killers. 

“I say we petition to make Dhrui the Inquisition’s official beastmaster,” she joked. 

“She would quickly fill Skyhold with animals and force the rest of us out,” Solas grinned, then they fell briefly into silence, peering across the oasis where Dhrui was now lounging on top of Shamun who had waded happily into the refreshing blue waters.

“You had a question earlier…” she started, wondering where he had been leading with it. Solas drew his finger through the wet sand between them, carving a circle followed by a few runes.

“Ah, yes. I had wondered if you—or your mentor knew the original purpose of _vir’elgar’dun_ ,” he said. “Beyond the obvious meditational benefit it provides.”

“I have always used it for mental clarity,” she answered readily, for once telling the full truth. “Although if you know something, I would love to hear it.” He smiled and added another circle that intersected the first. 

“As I am sure you know, the word in itself means the path between body and spirit,” he began, “Our connection to the Fade was much more intimate in the time of Elvhenan than what it is now. But even then to wholly cross into the Fade, one still needed to make a conscious effort. Dreamers like us would have had no trouble slipping across—our very will would have been enough, walking between both places with full consciousness.”

“So non-Dreamers came up with the _vir’elgar’dun_?” she asked and he nodded.

“It did not quite achieve the effect they were going for, but as a result they created a beautiful form of martial art.” Dolour crept into the corners and angles of his sculpted features. She felt it threatening to come over her own. “Ironically, I believe the technique is more useful today than it was then. If performed correctly, it should make casting easier. Master it, and it will be like having a foot in both worlds—with some limitations.”

“I am not even sure where I would begin with that. My expertise does not lie in Dreaming,” she said and that wasn’t really dishonest. 

“Fortunately, mine does. If you like, I could try to guide you,” he said, sitting up straight. 

“I…I have not attempted to go back into the Fade since Adamant,” she said. “ _Void_ , and it has been even longer since I have tried to seek out my old friend. He must think I am dead not to have come looking for me.”

“Even more reason to try,” he said in a critical tone. And suddenly she’d been plunged back into the darkness of her mind. She felt guilty for even having mentioned her Shan’shala at all since he had lost his friend. She hoped he didn’t resent her for it. A blanket of doubt wrapped around her and unconsciously, her fingers pressed into her palm. Solas reached forward, his hand hovering hesitantly over her own. His brow furrowed, unsure…and then he committed, pressing it lightly against her knuckles. “Find your friend.” She wished it were so easy.

“How difficult will it be to perform the real _vir’elgar’dun_?” she asked as they got to their feet. His cheek dimpled in thought.

“Not easy. If you want to find your friend quickly, it would likely be easier to simply sleep,” he said. She fell silent. Maybe her _ghil’len_ hadn’t come looking for her because it had finally found a chance to be free of her. She hadn’t always been the best student. She had never been a good _anything_ to anyone. She had repaid Shan’shala’s kindness by forsaking the village to traipse after dwarves that didn’t even like her. Even when she won them over at last, she had left _them_ in favour of heading to Arlathan where she had happily— _blindly_ —served as a tool to ‘gods’ that had trodden her beneath their gilded heels. The only true family that had ever loved her she had turned her back on. And by the time Shiveren, Ghimyean, and Inaean had come into her life she’d since experienced terrible loss. The deaths of her dwarves and their Titan. Anger had consumed her and she had kept them all at a distance. She threw her all into the Rebellion. She’d gone back and grovelled for Shan’shala’s forgiveness, asking for him to make her into the perfect warrior for the sake of protecting people. He had accepted her back, but he had never been the same. She always thought if he wasn’t tied to his purpose of Protection, or if he was to ever take a body, he would have turned his back on her long ago. 

But Shan'shala didn’t. He accepted her request and with the help of its _nas’taron_ Valour, the two spirits had forged her anew. Valour had fought alongside her many times after that. It fell in battle, in the end, shattered into a hundred molten pieces. In her grief, she had taken the smallest wisp of it into her own soul because she could not let go. Because there were still many battles left to fight—and at the time, she had needed Valour the most against what they were facing.

Shan’shala had never forgiven her. He was afraid, and worse, disappointed in her. He believed she had lost all honour. In the other timeline, she’d distanced herself for fear of twisting Protection’s nature with the person she had allowed herself to become. Consumed by the need for revenge. And after Fen’harel— _Solas—_ fell on that fateful day, she’d returned to her roots as a protector. They had not expected their leader to collapse, but when he did, they knew only that he had to be protected. She'd been grabbed by Felassan, Solas' close and trusted friend at the time. _You have the essence of a spirit of Protection, you must come with us—_ , he'd said, and together, with a handful of others, they had removed Solas from _Tarasyl’an te’las_ to a place where he would never be found. Not even Shan’shala had known where they'd gone. It was then that she stood guard over her most important ward to date - without Protection’s guidance. She managed until the time came to nurture the Elu’bel, as well as prepare for the awakening of Fen’harel once more. By then, she had spent a great deal of time reflecting on her past. She sought Shan’shala out for guidance in her new position. He had been understandably upset that she’d gone dark—thought killed either by the same war that had claimed his _nas’taron_ or the raising of the Veil—but _yet again_ assumed the role as her _ghil’len_. He agreed because she had found the _Vir’shalamelan_ at last. The way of the guardian of life. Protect all, not just the few. 

In the end, she had forsaken— _betrayed_ —him all over again, fleeing to another timeline from a doomed world she had _sworn_ to protect.

How many more times would she lose herself before the song played its final beat? 

She needed guidance.

She felt something sticky between her fingers. Her blunt nails had dug so deeply into her palms that it had drawn blood. She was shaking.

Solas had of course noticed her abrupt shift. She took a step back from him when he looked about to touch her again. If he did, she would break. His whole body seemed to sag, face falling as though she had just told him she hated him.

“Did I say something to upset you?” he asked in a small voice. She shook her head. “Maori, if I can help—”

“What do you do when you have betrayed someone so completely that you do not recognise your own self? Can you seek forgiveness? Even when you claim it was for a greater cause?” Her voice was like rock grinding into dust, rough; lifeless. _Give me an answer, Solas,_ she implored him silently. They were not so different after all. _You have always had answers._

He looked as though she had just eviscerated him. He let out a shuddering breath, his hand rose to settle just over his sternum.

“If you cannot forgive yourself then perhaps forgiveness is not what you should be seeking.” His hoarfrost eyes held hers for a moment before they slid like water droplets on glass to the still pools beside them. “Set upon a path for redemption instead. Prove yourself to be better than you were in the past.” It was her turn to be gutted by his words. She averted her face when her eyes began to burn. “You are strong, Maordrid. Whatever it is you must face, you will endure. I do not doubt that.” She forced her fingers to relax, supinating her hands to inspect the damage. The pain was dull in the crimson crescents and the blood had already dried in the heat of the day. She crouched down to wash it from her skin. She watched numbly as a faint cloud of red mixed with the water. 

“Forgive me my silence and whatever trouble I have brought you, Solas,” she said, letting the tips of her fingers dangle into the pool as she stared at the shore on the other side. “Past, present, and future. Thank you for your wisdom. I will hold it close.” She rose to her feet again, wiping her palms on her shirt. Solas stared morosely at the faint streaks of blood they left on the fabric. Maori began to walk past him, but he stopped her with a light touch at her shoulder, fingers just barely brushing her heated skin.

“Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I am here. To talk or to sit in silence, as you have done for me,” he said. “I wish you luck with your friend…and peace of mind.” She bowed respectfully.

“ _Ma sul’amem en’an’sal’in em_ , Solas.” The hurt faded some from his face and he returned the bow. Together, they walked in silence back to the group, masks sliding back on as though they had never been removed to begin with. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night when they stopped, conversation buzzed around and at her as was usual. She was glad to see the others in higher spirits. Dhrui and Yin had introduced Dorian to a Dalish game they called _Mis Shos._ It involved taking a knife and tossing it in some ridiculous manner—behind their back, under their knee—to get it to stick in the ground as close to their foot as possible. Whoever went next had to duplicate the move. Of course, if they managed to impale their foot the game was won. Sera and Bull would have loved the rules. Solas was less than amused and refused to heal anyone that happened to ‘win’. While they were having their fun, Maori had been gathering the courage since the oasis to seek Shan’shala in the Fade. It had been haunting her thoughts all day. Frederic sat beside her on a log of firewood attempting to recreate a diagram from the Tevinter manuscript, occasionally asking her opinion on its accuracy. Solas, the actual artist in camp, would have been far better suited to giving any critique, but he was preoccupied and _she_ was just stewing in silence, smoking her pipe.

“My Lady, is there something on your mind today? You seem…distracted,” he asked while she watched Dhrui’s knife flash through the air for the fiftieth time. The Lavellan broke out in tittering laughter when it landed an inch from her toe.

“A bit of lassitude, _lethallan,_ do not concern yourself,” she replied, glancing first at his notebook, then at Solas who was working on adding something to his staff. She began to tamp out her pipe, which drew Frederic's gaze. “Although, I think I may retire early tonight.” 

“Oh, of course. _Dors bien_ ,” he said, sounding a little disappointed. She managed a friendly smile and a bow of her head, then rocked to her feet before approaching Solas. He looked up, hands stilling in the motion of wrapping new leather around the top of the staff. She knelt beside him, lips parted in preparation for words.

“The Fade…it is safe?” she asked quietly.

“I have not sensed anything,” he said. “You have decided, then?” She swept a hand across her brow with a nod.

“Would you mind taking my shift tonight?” He gave her a small, humorous smile.

“That is quite the request,” he said. She returned the expression weakly, tugging the end of her braid.

“Should I ask one of the others? I know you prize your chance to dream…” He shook his head.

“No, if anything staying awake will allow me to monitor you—if you are concerned with the potential danger. The safest assurance would be to accompany you into your dream, but I imagine you would like to go alone.” His accent curled up at the end in an inflection of a hopeful question—or maybe it was a request.

“I appreciate the offer, but it is best that I go alone for now.” A smile escaped her careful control. “But if you do happen to fall asleep and I fail in my quest, we could meet on the hill by the sea? I could use some lute practise.” His eyes brightened, then he nodded.

“You have only made sleeping more of a temptation, if that is what awaits in the Fade.” She reached up and placed her hand against the curve of his neck to convey her gratitude, then got to her feet. He patted her hand fondly before she retracted it.

“You will be fine,” he assured her. _No, I won’t be._

Standing before the tent, she was reminded of a small mausoleum. It certainly felt like a death sentence. She knew once she lay down on her bedroll and entered the dream she would have no trouble finding Shan’shala. Like the little haven Solas had created for her, they had a similar meeting place where they had once trained every day. She yearned to see it as equally as she wanted to steer clear of it entirely.

She glanced over her shoulder with her fingers parting the flap of the tent. She saw Solas give her an encouraging nod. There was no backing out now. Maori slipped inside and knelt, considering taking off her armour. Scale mail with missing pieces, a dented metal breastplate that she’d tried to hammer out, and a gorget that had seen better days. It would be easier to sleep without it, but in it she felt safe. Guarded. She lay on her back and laced her fingers over her stomach, staring up at the beige fabric. _Concentrate._ She rolled her head to her left and her eyes fell upon Solas’ coat folded neatly beside his pack, just within reach. Before she could stop herself, she pulled it over and set it under her head. It smelled of star anise, a cool forest, and the faint ozone left by recent magic use. 

She focused on the scent of the forest, letting it fill her senses as one might the overture of a moving song. Pine sap and fallen needles, sweet and fresh. Then the theme was introduced—the smell of ocean brine lifted by a soft breeze that shifted the loose strands of hair away from her face. The air was heavy on her skin, a feeling she was as intimate with as her own heart. Prelude to a storm that was also the core of her magic, and a preserved memory of the world before the Veil, when it had permeated everything.

She stood at the bottom of Shan’shala’s mountain—a conical, dormant volcano carpeted in great dark pines of uniform height. Farther up she knew it to be less austere, with brilliant maples and cherry blossoms. 

By hand, she removed her boots and armour. Then she conjured a dark linen tunic with ties at the side and looser fitting pants, tied against her calves by a length of rope. A pair of sandals held to her feet by a single cord of leather. A simple bo staff materialised in her hand. And last, she cast away her hair and eyebrows. The student returned to her master.

To climb the mountain traditionally was a petition as much as it was a ritual. 

Even though she could not recall the last time she had climbed this path, her feet still remembered the way, for she had taken more steps along it than the number of years she had been alive.

Her eyes hardly took in her surroundings. She could not say if it was because it was so familiar or if she simply did not _want_ to see it, for fear that she might turn and walk back down the way she had come—leave the dream and stay away from the Fade entirely.

_Would I be here if Solas hadn’t asked where I learned the art? If I had pressed the matter?_

_It has been at the back of your mind since Cullen asked back at Skyhold. It has only been festering._

_At the very least, I will speak my piece and then be on my way. No harm done._

She took comfort knowing that Solas would be waiting for her no matter what happened.

She grit her teeth, doubling her speed up the worn trail. Sweat formed on her forehead, in the small of her back, between her palm and the wood in her hand. She was surprised when it dripped into her eyes. Without hair, everything felt too sharp. She never thought she would miss it, but here she was. In a short amount of time, the cords of her sandals began to rub the skin raw beneath her ankles and between her big and middle toe. The pain grounded her. 

As she rose above the height of the pine forest and grew closer to the summit, winds whipped at her shirt, chilling her less vascular extremities. The cloying scent of blossoms filled her cold nostrils, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of apprehension. For a moment, a spectre of her younger self dashed across the bumpy path ahead, feet barely touching down as she raced to the top. Maori followed immediately, ignoring the sting of the popped blisters. The young elf was nimble, her speed aided by the burning desire to impress Protection. Maori could hardly keep up, unused to the sandals that were slick with sweat. They caused her to trip once or twice and if she wasn’t trying to keep up with herself, she would have stopped to be rid of the damn things. The trail turned into a shallow ravine at one point, eroded by rainfall in the waking realm and reflected here by Shan’shala’s memory. Stones and roots were exposed in the dirt. She’d quite forgotten this part of the mountain and tripped straight into it with barely enough time to tuck her head beneath her arms as her body tumbled to the bottom. Her shoulder collided with the shallow stream, pulling a gasp from her when the icy water flooded her clothes. She swore and pushed to her feet, clambering back up the sides and resuming the race. Already, the phantom of herself was nearing the top where the cherry blossoms and maples transitioned into giant boulders of porous cooled magma. 

Breathing through her nose, Maori climbed the rest of the way knowing she wouldn’t catch up with the girl and wouldn’t have continued into the crater on the other side of the mountain’s lip even if she’d managed to keep pace. Because once she reached it, she could only stare down into the bowl like it was the open maw of a dragon. 

_“Afraid, da’len?”_ a memory of Valour asked, coming to stand beside her, leaning upon the pommel of her great warhammer. 

_“Only of myself,_ ” she replied, knowing that it wasn’t really her old friend. _“I will only bring him more hurt, coming here with fickle apologies.”_

_“As opposed to keeping your silence forever? Where is the honour in that?”_

 _“I forsook it when I took your wisp into myself. He was right—I should have let you go. By now you would have grown into something else. You might have helped others as a new spirit. I have been on the same warpath since you died.”_ Valour leaned to the side, digging the head of the warhammer into the volcanic rock.

“ _You cannot change that past, da’len.”_ Maori smiled bitterly. “ _Your mistake was mine as well. If I had known that a piece so small would have driven you into the place that you are now…I might never have let you take me. You are so burdened now.”_

_“Do not speak of what you do not understand, spirit,”_ she said coolly. _“You are not Valour. Please leave me.”_ The apparition bowed its head solemnly, but obeyed her request.

Maori continued into the crater down the gritty path toward the shrine just ahead. A circle of white stone surrounded a great tree at the bottom, interrupted by a pattern of shining black stones. From above, one would see the image of a white serpent eating its own tail, guarding the eternally blossoming tree in its centre. Her namesake.

She crossed the body of the serpent without pause, eyes on the translucent image of the young Naèv Enso standing before the tiny gong hanging from a branch. Maori joined her, taking a moment to look the girl in the face. Vivacious grey eyes peered through the memory at the brass tied to the tree. She clutched a leather-wrapped stick in both hands. There were no scars on the visible expanses of skin or wrinkles in the corners of those tilted, innocent eyes.

Something ugly reared its head deep within her and with a slash of her hand, Maori dispelled the unstained image of herself. _Pathetic._

She swiped the stick off its humble altar at the base of the trunk and struck the gong. The golden sound rippled out from the centre of the shrine, echoing up and out of the crater in a visible wave of dust and magic. Maori returned the striker to its spot and then sat down on the rectangular square of polished wood beside it. Impressions had been worn in it where both her and Shan’shala had taken turns sitting over the centuries. It almost felt warm to the touch, but she knew that was just a projection of the present.

She closed her eyes…and waited. 

Part of her wished she had asked Solas to come with her. Partly for support…but also to introduce him to Shan’shala, if the spirit chose to appear. She owed Solas that, at the very least. It was a safe truth, one that no one alive knew of her. Even if they never became anything more, she wanted him to know that whatever came in the future, her roots were here. A protector from the start as she would be until the end.

Footsteps crunched on the black stone, but she did not open her eyes. The rhythm was self-assured, never faltering. Valour had been like that, every step taken with absolute certainty that her foot would land on solid ground. Without fear—the preparedness to face anything. 

From the lip of the crater to the shrine, it took exactly a hundred and five measured strides. Twenty from the snake to the tree. 

She counted ninety before they stopped. Five meters. Almost fifteen feet away from where she sat.

_“You have tamed your storm. As much as a storm can be tamed.”_ She opened her eyes slowly at his voice. He sounded exactly the same, but why should he have changed? He was a spirit after all. He’d an accent as broad as the conical hat atop his head, but each word was cut precisely. Elven was meant to flow, but he had never cared for poetry.

_“I did not think you would come,”_ she replied. Shan’shala did not tread any closer, but she saw his ghostly white eyes admiring the shimmering white blossoms of his tree.

_“The gong was struck. How could I not?”_

 _“You came even though I have not had a chance to explain myself for the past,”_ she said. _“No, that is wrong. I should not have come at all. You never did like apologies or excuses. ‘Actions are the true words of the heart.’”_ The hat tilted to the side, obscuring his features.

 _“Indeed. And yet your actions have brought you here. You climbed my path as you once did as a youth, then rang the bell. Your petition is complete, so I answered.”_ Using the staff, she climbed painfully back to her feet. _“Words have always been lacking, but you have a tongue and that is how you communicate. I would bid you use it to at least tell me why you seem…different.”_ She grimaced, looking down at her wrecked feet. _“I will reserve my judgement until the end.”_

_“I do not deserve the chance to appeal to you for your time nonetheless forgiveness.”_

_“I might have agreed with you once, but as I said, there has been a shift in your spirit—like the plates of the earth moving as a Titan turns in its slumber.”_ Shan’shala finally took a step forward, then another and another until he was standing beneath the shade of the tree. _“Your arrogance is diminished. Your vengeance is a pale scar.”_ He continued to study her, drawing even closer until the brim of his hat practically skimmed the top of her scalp. “ _Valour has grown within you, but Protection still holds strong, almost prevalent. But where arrogance and vengeance have faded, a deeper guilt and sorrow have replaced it. They are like vines, twisting and knotted around something else that I have never seen in you.”_ He leaned back, ethereal lips smiling beneath his white beard. _“And it is_ very _new. Recent. But before that question is answered, I would like to know how you are alive when I saw your body very much dead.”_ Her eyes widened. How had he seen it? _“Oh yes, da’len, when the sky opened up, many of our brethren were destroyed. I know not how you died, but your body was brought into the Fade and to my knowledge, it remains here somewhere, though I daren’t search for it…”_ He paused, stroking his wispy beard. _“A great many things have occurred in both worlds that even I have never seen. I come back to you, da’len. You are loud, ringing not from two realms of dreaming and waking…but four in total, now. An eclipse, though I cannot tell whether you are doing the eclipsing or the hiding behind.”_ She bit the inside of her cheek and looked him in the eyes.

 _“I betrayed you again, hahren,”_ she said. _“You remember when I came to you…when others began to look to me for guidance.”_ He remained still, milky eyes unblinking. _“I told you that there was more to protect than the People.”_

 _“Yes, I recall. Vir’shalamelan,”_ he said. _“You had finally found it.”_

_“I tried, hahren,”_ she cried, hunching her shoulders. _“I tried too late to save them. I cut corners to stop it—to reverse it all.”_ She steeled herself against her own doubt, though her voice quavered like struck metal. _“I have been given the chance to change what has already happened. But what I did may have very well destroyed the world that I left behind. The antithesis of what I stand for.”_ She was prepared to see herself out of the dream. To wake up and wallow in her own sorrow until she could grow another callous over it. To lift her chin and continue on with her duty. 

_“I cannot say with confidence if what you did was monstrous or heroic, da’len. But I see that much of the guilt you carry is tearing you apart, even though neither of us can truly say if your actions resulted in a terrible thing. One thing I do know is that you have not forsaken the Path—you have begun building a new one entirely. And…I believe it is better that the one that I struggled for so long to set you on.”_ She bristled, her right hand balling into a fist.

_“How can you say that? You should be furious with me. After all that I have done—the times that I spat in your face and turned from you, thinking I knew better!”_ Shan’shala only smiled. His gnarled hand came to rest on her shoulder.

_“The vines of sorrow and guilt twist around your heart. A heart that has fallen in love,”_ he said. She felt like he’d just punched her in the solar plexus. _“It has changed you.”_ His other hand alighted on the other, firm and unmoving. _“You hew this path for this new love and for the old love that you hold for this world. You have grown, da’len.”_

_“It is more complicated than you know,”_ she said. _“It was not supposed to happen.”_

_“Such is love.”_ He peered at her closely. _“You are terrified of it.”_ She nodded.

_“I would ask for your guidance again,”_ she murmured. The spirit looked to the side in silence.

_“Complicated, you say.”_

_“I am not holding you to anything. But I owe you answers. The explanation to my disappearance.”_ She held her breath, looking at her old friend. _“It will lead into why I have come to you as I am now.”_

_“Then do what you think you must.”_ She nodded and together they sat beneath the tree across from one another. Crossing her legs and placing her hands together, she filled her lungs with air and dredged up the memory, willing it into the Fade where it took form.

  


————————————

“They’re pressing the advance! We need to fall back!” Elves clad in golden armour and magic alike held the frozen mountainside against a swarm of furious sentinels whose faces bore the markings of the Evanuris. The forces of the Rebellion were stretched to their limit—every second that passed, more of them fell. They held the last line of defence, trying to buy Fen’harel the time he needed to coax the false gods away from the world. The Dread Wolf had known that some of the Evanuris had already been suspicious of what he meant to do and had told his followers to expect an assault. They had been ready from the start—to fight until the death to ensure that he was successful. And he had been right. Elves marked for Andruil, Falon’din, Elgar’nan, and several other higher houses of influence that supported them had come to put an end to Fen’harel and his rebels. The remaining Evanuris hadn’t been quite as clever and their forces were too far from the keep to come to their aid. 

Even so, the armies that did arrive on their doorstep vastly outnumbered the ones that were part of the insurrection. They did what they could to avoid killing their brethren, but the enslaved elves were compelled by their masters through the _vallaslin_ to throw themselves onto their swords if it meant a chance at mortally wounding them—the so-called traitors.

Yrja was surrounded by allies of Fen’harel’s and her own. Together they held the back line. Normally, she would be at the front fighting, but her Aegis was the strongest out of everyone’s and they needed protection. A fist of elves formed a small group around her while she cast a massive, nigh-impenetrable barrier around a larger group of about twenty duelling mages. For a time, her Aegis had given them an edge. But now, the front line was failing and soon they would be overwhelmed, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand other magics. They were a quickly diminishing island caught in the heart of a swirling tempest.

“Where the _fuck_ is Fen’harel?” someone in her ranks screamed over the howling magics. It sounded like Shiveren.

“Does it matter? We’re going to die out here! Keep holding!” one of the Dread Wolf’s warriors shouted back. Yrja growled, splaying her hands and lifting them above her head to reinforce the Aegis as a massive fireball came arcing through the sky. It exploded on the dome and melted onto it like lava, attempting to burn through the barrier. Twisting her fingers, she altered the magic making up the Aegis into an ice-base instead of the combination of fire and storm. The fiery mess hissed in protest, but began to blacken as it hardened into rock. Something was wrong. The barrier should have dissolved the magma after it cooled, absorbing whatever magic remained within it to strengthen her own spell.

“Fates above, is that his plan?” Yrja had felt it before Shiveren spoke. Her magic had suddenly taken on a slippery feel. She struggled to maintain her hold on the Aegis, then looked up at the sky where the others were all directing their attention. Patches of the heavens were…shimmering, rippling. More than usual. Like shadows cast upon a pond. She didn’t like the way it felt.

A shout from up the incline drew their gazes from the sky. A man was sprinting down the path waving his arms, his eyes so wide that the violet irises were visible from there. Yrja opened the back of the Aegis just wide enough for the man to join them.

“Could the Slow fuckin’ Arrow have been any _slower_ to bring us news? Please tell me he succeeded!” Shiveren asked the elf once he was within earshot. Felassan threw a flurry of screaming purple fears into the roiling fray just beyond the barrier. A whole line of marked elves collectively lost their minds to terror and fled back through their allies.

“What’s going on? Why does the magic feel…more distant?” Yrja asked the man. He bent over slightly, panting to catch his breath.

“It’s not good. Things got a bit squirrelly in the end with the big hats,” Felassan said, casting his eyes to the crackling skies. “It’s done though, the Wolf has sprung his trap.”

“Understand that much, but where is he?” Shiveren snapped, casting a spell that was meant to send several spectral images of himself into the wall of clashing elves. Only two appeared. “Why do I feel so weak?” Felassan looked back toward the keep looming at the top of the mountain.

“Oh no. We need to go. Not good, _not good,_ ” he muttered, then he turned and surveyed the faces in the group. His violet eyes landed on her. “Oh, perfect, you’ve the essence of Protection. I should have guessed by the barrier. You’re coming along. Now we need to go or we _may_ get caught in the trap too.” He fired a small flare of magic into the air, though she wasn’t sure what it was meant to do. The strange magic above was getting stronger and the patches were spreading. Those that could shapeshift all turned into more mobile forms—Yrja assumed a griffon quickly.

“Get on, Slow Arrow,” she told the elf when he showed intentions of _running_ back up the mountain. The man clambered onto her back without another word. Yrja tied off the Aegis for the elves that remained behind fighting and then launched them into the sky toward the keep. They easily surpassed the others flying and running in their other forms up the mountainside. Hostile magic hailed from the sky called from below—one last attempt to bring them down. Felassan was quick to bubble them in a barrier after she’d rolled in the air to avoid a blood control spell from Falon’din’s ranks.

“There—he’s coming through there!” Felassan called over the howl of the wind, pointing toward the main hall of the keep. Just as they were passing over the walls, a brilliant blue-green bubble of magic exploded from the stronghold, the force of which nearly knocked them from the air. She managed to crash land just inside of the entrance, losing her form in the process. They looked back through the doors where the magic was singing over the entirety of the keep. The mountain groaned and shook. It sounded like it was about to collapse. But whatever powerful spell had just erupted from within the stronghold sank into the stones like water in soil and reinforced the air around them in some sort of barrier. 

Felassan pulled her to her feet by her arm. 

“Solas?” he shouted, jerking his head for her to follow. The other elves had just now reached the main courtyard and were hurrying to join them. Yrja followed close behind Felassan, her magic humming around her fists. 

“Be careful, he might have been followed,” she hissed at the other elf. 

“No, he’s alone,” the man said with eerie certainty. They rounded a corner into a rotunda where an Eluvian stood, glowing as though a sun were hiding behind it. As soon as they entered, a man came stumbling out of its frame, tendrils of black smoke streaming from his golden armour. He tumbled to his knees but spun, lifting his hand and clenching it into a fist. The Eluvian darkened, and then shattered. The obsidian orb clutched in his left hand fell to the stone floor with a dull metallic thud. There was a moment of silence…and then Fen’harel started laughing. 

“It is done,” he declared, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed. Yrja and Felassan rushed forward and caught him before he could fall, easing him to the floor. She ripped off a gauntlet with her teeth and pressed her fingers to his carotid. There was a pulse, but it was thready, barely there.

It was then that the others finally arrived, filing in through the door. A number remained outside to keep watch. 

“What happened?” Elgalas asked, eyes fixated on the shattered Eluvian. She’d a nice gash across her forehead and a bloody wound in her side, but was otherwise still standing up straight.

“The spell he cast took all of his energy and spent all of what was within his orb,” Felassan informed them. “We’ve been separated from the Fade.” Panic and disbelief tinged the air, but she noticed that the feelings were quieter than they should have been. It all made sense. Her magic misbehaving, the sudden weakness, the strange lights in the sky… 

“ _Fuck_ , Arlathan. The Crossroads…Adahlen Haur Misaan’an…the Era’eolosan…the Vir Dirthara!” Shiveren despaired. “Without magic…”

“Sundered. But we are safe,” Yrja said, her voice echoing loudly in the round chamber. “The world still stands because of him.” Most of the eyes fell to the unconscious man between her and Felassan. 

“What about those outside? There’s some kind of…barrier surrounding the keep. We’re safe for _now_. What happens if we leave?” one of the other rebels asked.

“Nothing, probably. We might feel a little woozy, but that was predicted,” Felassan said with a simplicity that grated. “We cannot stay here, though. We must take him to a place where he can rest and recover his strength.”

“I agree. This place is remote, but it is still sitting upon a mountain. Even with the magics protecting it from invaders, people will come. It is a desirable hold,” she said.

“We will take the Eluvians,” Felassan decided, reaching over to grab the orb off the ground. He tossed it to her like anything, casually. “Hold onto it, little guardian. I never liked the thing. Tastes terrible.” Felassan looked down at Fen’harel and while his face displayed something like amusement, there was a hint of worry in his violet eyes and sadness in the corners. “All right, Solas, let’s get you out of here. Hope you’re light with all that armour.” Yrja motioned for Shiveren who rushed to Solas’ other side and with Felassan the men looped Fen’harel’s arms over their shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “Right. This way.” She followed behind them with the orb clutched in her hands, eyes on the slumped form strung between the other elves. When they emerged into the hall, she tried her best to ignore the gasps that followed after them. She was glad when everyone fell in silently without question. She didn’t have any good answers anyway.

They travelled through the Eluvians from their former stronghold for several days at the lead of Felassan and a spirit that had joined them shortly within the Crossroads. It was a spirit of Wisdom. It never left Solas’ side, which allowed for the other elves to sleep along the journey when they weren’t keeping watch. With the orb still in her possession, Yrja found she couldn’t sleep. That, and many areas of the Crossroads were crumbling and growing unstable around them, which made it difficult to relax. All she could do was sit and watch and listen…and stand guard. The world was changing. The others began referring to the strange curtain barring them from the Fade as the Veil. When they weren’t marching onward, she studied this new barrier. Through careful questioning, she slowly weaselled information from Felassan and Wisdom about the nature of the Veil, since Fen’harel—or Solas as they referred to him exclusively—had confided in them. 

It had been his last resort, apparently. No one had been present while he had been dealing with the Evanuris, but they knew enough that the ‘Veil’ plan had been the backup to something else. Things must have gotten very bad. Wisdom suspected that Solas wouldn’t recover for a while. She wasn’t sure how long it would take.

When they reached the place where they would lay him to rest, a new plan had been lain. A handful of them would remain in the secret bolthole and watch over his body while the others ventured out into the new world to investigate the aftermath and gather knowledge for when Fen’harel called upon them again. She had been the first person Felassan asked to remain with his friend. She’d detected the unspoken order in his voice, even though they were supposedly all equals now. The Slow Arrow had entrusted her merely because he had sensed Protection in her spirit. _Watch over the Wolf. He needs us now._

She swore that she would protect him with her life until she was dismissed from her duty or killed. 

“ _That dismissal never came,”_ she told Shan’shala as they stood before the pyre bearing the still body of Solas. 

_“But you left his side eventually, to learn about the new world you had helped to usher in,”_ Protection said. She nodded.

 _“Yes. My agents would return every so often to report and one would stand in for me while I ventured out. I always came back,”_ she said.

_“That you do. I believe I remember when you returned to me after all those years spent hidden away. You had refused to tell me anything.”_

_“It was for your protection._ ” The spirit huffed.

_“Excuses.”_ She cracked a small smile, but then gestured to the image of the orb sitting on its plinth beside the resting pyre.

_“When the orb began reaching its capacity in power, we knew that Solas would be ready to wake soon after. What we did not know was what he intended to do once he did. At the time, my people had been hoarding information in case the worst happened, since we had learned our lesson with the Veil. Yet, we had never cultivated a real back up plan because we’d held out hope that when our wise leader returned to us, he would have a flawless one already in mind.”_ Maori watched as the bald version of herself materialised back into the memory and plucked the orb off its stand. She turned to speak to some others out of view, then departed with the focus in hand. _“That is when I learned to stop hoping. Fen’harel woke with a loathing for the world he had created. He was angry, blinded by grief. We had kept ours, but it had subdued over time. We’d learned to live in and admire the new world. Yet, none of us dared to challenge Fen’harel. Except for Felassan.”_ She had to pause against her own bout of grief before continuing, _“When Fen’harel killed him, I ordered my people to keep their heads down. Do nothing that draws suspicion—we will find a way around it. Time raced against us. A few of us were ordered to take the orb and lure a Tevinter magister into finding and unlocking it. Instead of taking the focus and fleeing to the ends of the world, I listened…and thus began the down spiral.”_

 _“And out poured the heavens,”_ Shan’shala finished.

_“That is where I came through to this time,”_ she said and he finally looked at her with confusion. “ _In the other world, I have already lived through this event. When the Breach appeared for the first time, I sought you out. You helped me again because the world was threatened once more. You gave me your blessing.”_ She allowed the memory to skip forward. They watched the Inquisition rise and restore order. Then came the Exalted Council where Inquisitor Yin Lavellan attempted to salvage the organisation he had built—all while the magic in his hand threatened his own life and the Qunari bore down as merciless as the angry nobles. She remembered when word reached her that the Inquisition had been disbanded. Fen’harel returned and began the search for the means to tear down the Veil. How she had fought with herself then. There had been a brief time when she’d considered approaching Solas himself, to make a case for the lives he had reluctantly decided were less important than those of the People. She’d consulted Inaean and Shan’shala though ultimately they convinced her not to. Meanwhile, word came that Lavellan had disappeared from the public eye. Mysteriously, many of Solas’ attempts to accumulate more power were foiled. There had been one or two more meetings between Solas and the former Inquisitor where Lavellan tried to talk his friend down. She did not know the details, but she knew how it ended. Solas was not swayed.

Yrja searched for her own way before the end. Another mission took her to Tevinter and there she crossed paths with Dorian Pavus.

She let Shan’shala watch that particularly amusing exchange. Then the scheming between them. The slapdash plan to turn back time. Dorian’s ingenuity.

Then finally, the Temple of Elgar’nan. 

_“I am truly impressed by the speed with which your mortal friend concocted a solution,”_ Shan’shala remarked as they watched the scene unfold within the Atrium. She let the rest of it play out from her memory—where she was thrown into the Fade and then quickly torn out of it. _“So it worked, this Dorian’s spell.”_

_“Not perfectly, but yes,”_ she answered, then carefully watched her mentor when Yin sealed the first rift at Breach. Her first moments spent as a tentative prisoner to the fledgling Inquisition. 

When Solas visited her in the dungeon under Haven, Protection seemed to truly see him for the first time. Maori sped through to more important memories. The nightmares, then Redcliffe, the occasional vision that showed her growing friendship with Solas and the others, the fall of Haven, her imprisonment at Therinfal—visceral feelings of vengeance surfaced there—then her return to the Inquisition. 

_“You could have stayed dead and worked from the shadows,”_ Shan’shala pointed out. _“That is something you would have done in the past.”_

_“You saw how keeping my silence ended in the other timeline.”_

_“True. But you know things now.”_

_“You know it is more than that,”_ she said as they watched Solas’ night-shrouded figure walking across the bridge at Skyhold. The memory skipped forward some to where she followed him to the little oasis. _“And…I grew sentimental.”_

She brought them to Adamant not long after. The long and bloody battle—the struggle through the raw Fade. The kiss.

The memories dissipated at last, leaving them standing once again beneath the ancient white tree.

_“You have come full circle. You protected Pride in one world and now you seek to do the same in this while striving to change his heart.”_ Her eyes focused on the grains in the wood of her staff. _“What do you need me for? You have proved your mettle, carrying a burden that perhaps no one else does. Heavy as the mountain we stand upon. But each time that you have fallen, you have gotten back up. You know your way.”_

 _“Who is the one making excuses now?”_ she quipped lightly. Shan’shala was unmoved. _“I am sorry. I had hoped…no. I do not hope.”_ She paused to rein in her disappointment. _“I owed you answers and an apology. I have walked a path of perdition and now I seek redemption. Wherever it may lead, know that I have embraced your teachings to their fullest.”_ She bowed to the old spirit, holding the posture. _“I am going to wake now, but know that I will return here when I can to train as we did long ago. If there is one last thing I can ask of you, allow this place to remain.”_ The spirit did not answer. She looked up from her bow, only to see that the air was empty.

Maori released herself from the dream, letting the waking world crash down on her all at once. It was never a good idea to do that, but the force of it was as effective as submerging herself in ice water. She gasped and curled into a ball, slamming her fist into the sand with a choked off cry. She lay there listlessly, hair coiled in the sand, sifting it through her fingers, eyes unseeing.

She barely registered the soft intake of breath behind her as Solas came awake from her disturbance. A hand rested lightly on her head.

“I failed,” she croaked. 

“It counts that you tried,” he whispered, voice husky with sleep. “And now you must endure.” She stared at the grains of desert dust beside her head, trying to pick out each individual one. She bet there were enough in that tiny pile to account for each of her hurts. Her joys were sorely lacking. She drew desperately from the small comfort that his simple contact brought. It was just enough. Any more and her resolve would break and she would cry. She wouldn’t do that. Not when Shan’shala was alive. And Inaean, Shiv, Dhrui, Dorian, Solas, Yin, and so many others. The world still stood. She had nothing to cry about.

She clasped his hand firmly.

“Yes. I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _ghi'len: guide/teacher_  
>  _nas'taron: twin soul_ (I'm totally into spirits having soul friends/mates of their own, okay)  
>  _ma sul'amem en'an'sal'in em: ‘you bring me great comfort’_  
>  _Mis Shos: dagger/blade foot_ (mumblety-peg, anyone? lol)  
>  _Dors bien_ : sleep tight/well  
> Also, I totally just made up Elvhen Tai Chi ( _vir'elgar'dun_ ). Tai Chi _very_ is calming. I recommend it! 
> 
> More made up things: Adahlen Haur Misaan’an ("Forest of Golden Spires")  
> the Era’eolosan ("Dream School/School of Dreams")
> 
>  
> 
>    
> 'nother note:  
> uhhh so a lot of heavy stuff. It's pretty much gonna be this way for a little bit, but I promise there will be actual action in the future.


	76. Speak Your Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Theme/mood 'cause Skyrim is rad.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7gXaKCQO3I)

  


  


Dhrui hated when Maori went through her bouts of silence. Because when she did, it was like trying to make friends with a rock. Her face would be as still as one and her voice lacked its natural sways and currents, becoming more like a dried riverbed in summer. She tried to understand what must constantly be churning in the woman’s mind—and Solas’—but sometimes it was all just rubbish to her because everyone else that was _mortal_ was living in the moment—not a million years in the past or a thousand in the future. Getting answers from Maori was still a tedious task. It was like trying to pull a stubborn taproot and she knew it was because Maori didn’t want to foist her troubles onto others. Dorian was frustratingly better at beating down Maori’s ridiculously thick walls, so she learned from him. Maori responded oddly—or perhaps ‘unexpectedly’ was the proper word—to half-serious threats. If one carried through with it, they tended to yield wildly varying results. Sometimes it pulled her right out of her mire of grimness, but in others Dorian would receive a scathing comment in Tevene or elven. It almost seemed like she approved of being challenged.

As such, during one of their rest stops coming to the edge of the desert, Dorian had crept up behind Maori while she was off smoking her brier behind a rock stack and magically trapped her feet in the sand. What followed was an interrogation as to _why_ she had been distant for two days straight. Dorian approached from a more devious angle, giving her the ultimatum that if she didn’t fess up, he would tell Frederic that she was waiting for him behind the rocks with intentions to profess her undying love for him.

Keeping a straight face during the fury that erupted from the small elf had been literally impossible. Impressively, Dorian had maintained his sand trap even when Maori’s magic threatened to freeze him in place. Easy, since he was proficient with fire magic. He simply drew runes on his own skin and waited it out.

Eventually, Maori broke down and told them about her spirit friend. Because apparently all ancient elves had spirit friends. Except, this one had _raised_ Maori, by the sounds of it. It got depressing quickly. But Dorian seemed relieved that Solas wasn’t responsible for her sadness. 

And while Dorian went through his own bouts of uncertainty over Solas, Dhrui was all for seeing her two friends find peace in one another. Maybe Dorian was wary of the whole thing, but Solas had been her friend before she knew the truth. Treating him like the monster her people had made him out to be was _not_ the answer. Showing him kindness _was._ The Wolf had seen many sorrows in his time, which had made him standoffish and reluctant to trust anyone. But with her clan, Dhrui had made many a friend with creatures thought broken and beyond hope. They could still love.

And this bloody stubborn wolf needed a bit of a shove. The man had buried himself in the books he’d brought, attempting to do research and blocking all else out. She decided to interrupt him anyway to ask about the _vir’elgar’dun_ , which seemed to surprise him. She had seen the peace that Maori had derived from the two literal sessions she’d had with Solas. After the last, the woman had set to practising it alone because _apparently_ she didn’t want to drag the man into her self-wallowing or inconvenience him in some way. The woman had a severe case of impostor syndrome. Somehow, she managed to convince herself that Solas couldn’t _possibly_ enjoy her company. The whole thing was a mess no matter how anyone looked at it, but Dhrui had seen the longing looks that Solas had been casting in Maordrid’s direction. The way that he never failed to looked up when she passed him by or spoke while they were riding. Dhrui knew he was waiting for the chance that Maori would ask him for something. _Anything_. Before the spirit incident, Dhrui had seen them exchanging fleeting touches here and there…but after they had ceased. She wanted to grab both of them by their collars and throw them into each other at last.

Solas agreed to teach her the slow forms. But she requested that they include Maori since it didn’t make sense not to. Solas had hesitated until Dhrui took him forcibly by the elbow the night they had finally reached the head of the Southern Foret River and had him wait by its banks while she retrieved Maori. The woman had been mildly displeased with her antics, but otherwise put on friendly face. Dhrui told him that he would teach them both how to perform the _vir’elgar’dun_ properly. Not that it would actually have any effect on her own dreams, but the forms were lovely. When Maori and Solas actually did work together, ignoring the obvious tension between them, the results were beautiful. Their magic already resonated quite well with one another. But beyond that, there had been a time or two when the entire camp had gotten to listen in as both of them had recounted a ‘memory’ they’d seen in the Fade. She’d never seen a cuter display. Both had prattled on excitedly over the details of some time-lost band of elves that had lived in the trees of the Emerald Graves, led by some vagabond that stole from the rich and gave to the poor.

Dhrui was excited when Solas finally stood before them both and began guiding them through the movements, talking his way through the theory of the _vir’elgar’dun._ His focus was primarily set on trying to help Maori get closer to mastering the magic part of it. She could almost imagine him standing at the head of one of those Era’eolosan amphitheatres that Maordrid had once described to her, lecturing to elves and spirits alike. 

It turned out, Maordrid was…not a very good student. She got frustrated easily. And it was likely worsened by Solas’ presence, going by the flustered blushes on her cheeks and ears each time he attempted to gently correct the position of her limbs. Dhrui had decided to forgo even trying to understand exactly what Solas was trying to explain. The weird jargon surrounding the Somniari bit was outright confusing, so she just focused on her own controlled movements. And she was doing quite good until Maordrid lost control of her own. 

“Did you just fall asleep on your feet?” Dhrui laughed, catching Maori before she ate the dirt. The woman stumbled back, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead and gritting her teeth.

“Maordrid, it is hardly any different than the static meditations you have done in the past,” Solas said, striding over to them. 

“But it _is_ different because I am _moving_. Closing my eyes, taking the steps, and trying to keep the postures perfect _while_ attempting to cast my consciousness into the Fade without actually doing so is bloody difficult! And it is different than a battlefield rhythm!” Maordrid snapped. “Yet you seem to be able to manage it. I can feel the magic around you.” Solas sighed.

“You said your casting comes easier, which means you are doing something right,” he said, thinking. “It is merely incomplete. You are missing a step. You will know it when you are successful.” Maori growled in her throat and set to try again. “Watercolours. Draw the Fade to you like water—that is your path. Take but a droplet of your consciousness and allow it to mix, but do not let it settle. The movements of your body should guide the ink that is your mind along the path of the water, distributing it equally between the realms…” A deep wrinkle formed between the skin of Maori’s brows, eyes shifting beneath their lids as though she were in a dream. Her arms lifted before her in a fluid movement and keeping her spine straight as her spear, she bent her knees and stepped lightly along the grass. Solas circled around her, stone-blue eyes taking in every inch of her as she moved. Dhrui stopped to watch, since mere seconds later, Maori began muttering under her breath in elven. “Maori?” Solas asked, but the woman didn’t answer.

“Did she fall asleep again?” Dhrui whispered. He shook his head with a small sigh, crossing his arms and plucking at his bottom lip in thought.

“Yes. Essentially, she is sleepwalking. Impressive that her body keeps going so smoothly, but that poses a hazard—agh! Maordrid!” Solas darted forward too late to save the elf as she tripped over a stone and splashed straight into the shallow waters. Maori shot awake with a gasp, then brought her fists down to her sides with a splash. A sailor would have been hard pressed to top the string of curses that flew from her lips in a rainbow of languages. She was surprised the water wasn’t boiling around her.

“He was there and I tried to follow but he bloody left again,” Maori said in the common tongue. 

“Who?” Solas asked, reaching for her from the bank. She stayed where she was, water rushing around her. She looked upstream, a scowl on her face.

“Protection,” she muttered, then finally got to her feet and plodded out of the river. She paused beside him. “Maybe it is better that I stick with what I know.”

“You’re going quit after only one session?” Dhrui asked, disappointed. Maori regarded her, fisting the end of her braid. 

“I would rather not sleepwalk into danger.” She looked down at her sopping clothes. Then, cryptically, “Not worth the nightmares.” She stalked off back toward the camp, leaving the two of them behind, muttering some more. She caught something about dwarves in dreams before she walked out of range.

“I suppose I shall return to my studies for the day,” Solas sighed, trying to hide his disappointment. He looked at her, clasping his hands behind his back. “Unless you would like to continue?”

“Nah, it’s more important that you do your searching. She’ll come around. She always does,” Dhrui said, running her fingers through her bangs. Solas inclined his head and followed after Maori back to the camp, leaving her alone. _I’m not giving up!_

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


She was about to give up. She’d tried displacing their belongings. Snatching Solas’ coat and cloak away when he took them off and stashing in Maori’s pack, but the other woman just sneaked it back to him when he wasn’t looking. She managed to get Alas’nir to hold onto Maori’s cloak in his antlers. That almost worked. While Solas tried to get Alas’nir to hold still, Maori lunged unsuccessfully to dislodge it from the branchlike horns. It got them laughing, at least. But that ended when oblivious Frederic interrupted the moment to ask Maori for her assistance with identifying some stupid dragon anatomy in the Tevinter tome. Dhrui had caught the professor shooting Solas jealous glares any time the two mages were standing in close proximity to one another. 

Dhrui was lounging in the branches of an oak tree watching a pair of mangy squirrels scream at each other above her head when she should have been foraging for mushrooms days later. They were finally nearing the end of their journey—a day and a half away. Yin was antsy to get into the city where he was expecting some news from one of his advisors. Frederic was excited to show them around Val Royeaux and Dorian wouldn’t shut up about marbles baths with glitter and real food. 

Her ruminations were abruptly interrupted when a streak of light shot between the foliage of the oak in the dusky pink skies. Two more followed and with the third, the idea hit her like a meteor. If this didn’t work, she didn’t know what would. Dhrui slid down the trunk of the tree and picked her way through the forest to where Solas was on his knees in some soft moss, busy taking cuts from a patch of royal elfroot.

“Sol!” He barely turned his head to acknowledge her as she landed ungracefully beside him, sending a shower of dirt over his hands.

“ _Da’len_ ,” he greeted, shaking it off and resuming his task. 

“Are you going to bury your nose in your books again tonight?” She watched as he flipped the blade in his hand, pinching at the middle internode of an elfroot in the fingers of his opposite and taking his cutting from the top third of the plant. 

“I _have_ been making significant progress with the time we have been given.” Green-stained fingers deposited the herb into the thin sack at his side. “Although I am also running out of books to reference. At least until we reach Val Royeaux where Professor Frederic has promised to gain us access to the University’s library.”

“Good, then you can stargaze with us tonight!” she said, shaking his arm. He dropped the knife to avoid stabbing himself and shot her a glare through narrowed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Us as in…?”

“Everyone,” she lied. “Who else?” He studied her suspiciously but nodded curtly.

“Very well. Since it is likely our last night out here, I suppose that is fine.” She got back to her feet, intending to go find Maori next, but Solas cleared his throat. “I see your sack is empty and yet the area remains rife with good mushrooms.” She dragged a hand down her face. “We need them for potions, _da’len_.”

“I’ll take your mount duty for a week if you don’t tell anyone,” she bargained. Solas looked considering. “ _And_ I’ll tell Shamun not to slobber on you anymore.”

“That will not replace the mushroom stores, tempting as your offer is,” he said. Dhrui groaned.

“I didn’t take _you_ for one to follow the rules,” she griped, hoping that would make him reconsider. Solas continued his cutting and gathering.

“It has nothing to do with rules—simply an objective fact.” Dhrui stuck her tongue out at him while he wasn’t looking and tied her empty sack to her belt.

“Ten mushrooms and then we’re going out after,” she said in a voice she’d heard her Keeper use with stubborn children.

“A single batch calls for fifteen palm-sized caps.” She was about to palm _him_ in his bald cap. There was no point arguing. She surveyed the moist ground, counting the heads of dirt visible from where she stood. At least he wasn’t wrong about there being an abundance. She got to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Less than an hour later, Dhrui had successfully completed her meddling. Solas and Maori were totally unaware that the only ones going to stargaze that night would be the two of them. She just had to be sly about slipping away at the right time. 

Dhrui stood waiting by the creek some way outside of camp where they were supposed to meet her. The snapping of mossy branches came from the darkening forest and soon enough, Maori emerged brushing wet cobwebs from her tattered cloak. She immediately scrutinised the lack of companions in the area. Seconds later, the ferns ten paces away whispered and Solas appeared, bundled in his humble garb for the chilly night.

“Where are the others?” Maori asked both of them, an edge in her voice. 

“Coming. I think Frederic was getting his notebook so he can sketch the Draconis or something,” Dhrui said, having already come up with her excuses. “Yin and Dorian are gonna bring some snacks in a bit. Let’s go!” She beckoned to them and started walking, waiting only long enough to ensure they would follow. Solas was quick to catch up none the wiser to her machinations, but Maori was very keen with anything Solas was involved in. _Oh, my salty little warrior is so smitten it’s adorable._

“The lands north of here are rather inhospitable,” Solas commented pleasantly.

“As marshes usually are,” Maori said in her lacklustre way.

“I have heard of people inhabiting them, however,” he said. “You would think that such folk would be unpleasant, surviving on scarcely more than boiled frog legs and concocting foul smelling brews in stained cauldrons.”

“Is that not how Asha’bellanar was discovered by the Hero of Ferelden? Squatting in a little hut in the Korcari Wilds…preying on the unwary traveller?” Dhrui said, searching for a good tree or another clearing. “I mean, there’s usually a little truth to rumours.” 

“Perhaps. But the Nahashin peoples are said to be disarmingly gregarious and eager to extend invitation to travellers into their homes,” Solas said.

“I wonder how often that has worked out favourably, as much as I like the idea,” Maori said as Dhrui took a running start and jumped over the creek where she spotted light filtering through the trees ahead. Solas followed effortlessly, but Maori remained on the other side, pouting. “Say not a word about my height,” the woman growled as Dhrui opened her mouth to do exactly that. 

“Are you telling us you’ve never jumped a wider gap?” Dhrui teased. 

“Not with two friends judging how I go about doing it,” she retorted. “And I do not trust _you_ not to magically shift the bank away from me.” Dhrui gasped, placing a hand against her chest.

“I would do no such thing!” 

“ _Ma harel, da’len,_ ” Solas said with amusement.

“No, _you_. C’mon Maori, we’ve already missed the sunset,” Dhrui said. Maori scowled and backed up in preparation. As soon as she was airborne, Dhrui shifted the riverbank just slightly with a cackle. Solas cursed at her and stepped forward, arms extended as he caught Maori’s outstretched hand. He pulled her to safety, the woman stumbling into his chest stiffly. 

“Remind me why I agreed to this?” Maori asked him, hands still clutching his tunic.

“Because you love spending time with me?” Dhrui said. “Because I’m fun and loveable?” Maori released Solas at the same time he did her, though there was a mixture of reluctance and tension on his face. _This was such a good idea,_ Dhrui thought smugly.

“You are troublesome,” Maori shot.

“And you aren’t?” Solas said as they continued walking. “Sometimes it is difficult to tell who is leading the cavalry.”

“Maori’s older, it’s definitely her.”

“The old may still learn from the young,” Solas said.

“Who are you calling old?” Maori exclaimed. Dhrui glimpsed Solas reaching over boldly to brush a knuckle along the corner of her eye. “Trick of the light, Solas. Or a scar. Don’t get excited.”

“You are a distinguished warrior, _mis’sulahn_ ,” he said. Maori went quiet.

“That is a smooth way of calling someone old,” Dhrui remarked and a pinecone just happened to fall on top of her head as she passed beneath a tree.

“He certainly has a way with words,” Maori grumbled. Solas said something else entirely in archaic elven and Maori shoved him. Finally, they came to a spot where the trees were more barren and the grass was long and lush. Above, the constellations twinkled brilliantly against their bed of black, like pearls fallen to the bottom of the sea.

“Pure and unspoilt. Free of the influences of this world,” Solas breathed. Even though it was a common elven trait for their eyes to glow in the night, Solas and Maori’s had always been different. The whites of their eyes were faintly luminescent as though their spirits came awake at night. She was beginning to wonder if there really was a difference between their ‘people’. Or maybe it was just a sign of magical prowess. It must have been, otherwise she would think Solas would have recognised her as one of his own ‘people’ long ago.

Dhrui found her chance to creep away when Maori took a few lengthier strides into the middle of the small glade. Solas went to follow, and for a moment she actually thought they might sit together. 

She was _just_ stepping back into the treeline when Maori’s voice broke the silence, low and alarmed, “Do you see that glow?”

“It seems familiar,” Solas whispered back. 

“Red lyrium.” Dhrui threw her hands up and cursed the absent gods. _FOILED AGAIN!_ she screamed internally. She turned and rejoined the two elves, noticing that neither had brought their weapons.

“Venatori this close to the city?” Dhrui asked, finally noticing the dull, pulsing red light that was emanating from deeper in the forest. “What do we do?” Maori was chewing on her lip, hands clenching and unclenching in thought. Beside her, Solas was tensed, looking like he regretted not bringing his staff. None of them wore armour—except Maori who had only her half-breastplate, but nothing else. She caught the woman thumbing the transcript at her side in thought and knew she was trying to remember special mentions. 

“We cannot ignore them,” Solas said. “But neither can we fight them as we are now.”

“I beg to differ,” Maori said and Dhrui knew this wasn’t going to end well. Solas faced the shorter elf, nose wrinkling. The woman met his gaze unfazed, raising a brow. “I will scout it out. You two return to camp and get the others.” Solas scoffed.

“Don’t be brash,” he hissed. Then he paused thoughtfully. “I know I cannot change your stubborn mind, so I am coming with you. You cannot be trusted not to attempt to fight them alone.” Maori glowered and went to argue, but Dhrui smacked her on the shoulder.

“Now you two are being silly. What if we’re spotted? We don’t have our staves!” she whispered. Maori rolled her eyes and conjured her spear before letting it dissipate as a show. 

“ _We_ are going to observe while you return to get Dorian and Yin who are _definitely_ still back at camp unaware that we are out here,” Maori ordered. “Can you find your way back?” Dhrui’s heart dropped as she glanced back into the shadow-swathed forest. _I am such a terrible Dalish._ “ _Nuise’silhasis_ , Dhrui, just…stay put.”

“I can be useful without my staff!” she insisted as Solas and Maori approached the trees.

“If we are spotted, we need someone to run back,” Maori told her firmly, looking back. The woman’s face softened slightly. “Trust me, _da’vhenan_. A little reconnaissance and we will be back.” Dhrui shook her head.

“Solas, keep her out of trouble,” she pled.

“That is why I am going with her,” he assured her, and then they slipped into the shadows. 

  


\--------------------------

  


Even though they had fought countless horrors in the past, Maori never ceased to be unnerved by red lyrium. Its sickly, sinister glow made her skin crawl. She could hear its dissonant call before they even lay eyes on its source. But once they came within view, it was all she seemed able to see. Dissonant, alluring, and vibrant. She was reminded of a song where the melody was missing and the accompaniment was crying out for completion— _she_ was missing—it needed her to complete it--

Solas grabbed her wrist.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, pulling her beneath cover of a gigantic fern. She blinked, not realising that they had arrived at a spot in the forest where the floor suddenly dropped down into a hollowed out pocket of stone. An obelisk of red lyrium was protruding from the edge of the circular lip where they stood and she had been beelining straight for it. Had he not grabbed her, she would have walked in full sight of the Venatori and two fists of lyrium-infused templars below. “This was a bad idea. We should go back.”

“No,” she said, resolute. “We need to figure out why they are here.” She focused on the surrounding area, analysing the formations of the rock while forcing herself to ignore the horrible red crystals everywhere. “The rock here wasn’t formed naturally. It was carved out, but not recently.” She pulled her hood up over her face and lowered herself to her stomach, crawling closer to the edge to get a better look. Solas growled low in his throat, but then she saw his hooded head appear beside her. “Is that necessary?” she said in a tight voice when his thigh brushed along hers.

“You almost exposed us a moment ago—I will stay close in case I need to grab you again. What would you have done if I hadn’t come with you?” 

“I would have killed them all.”

“Ah, yes, all ten of the lyrium infected creatures and their lethal mages,” he gibed.

“If we were not in mortal danger, I would introduce you to _dun’vir’durgen._ ”

“That is not a real form and my body is already touching the earth.” Maori was about to strangle him for the last word and the need for silence.

“You are unarmed.” He peered at her from beneath his hood.

“Yes…?”

“Thus, this discussion is over. I would not continue a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent. It is dishonourable.” One corner of his lips twitched and he looked away again. “Follow me.” She rolled away from the edge and rose to a low crouch, weaving her way between ferns and underbrush along the perimeter of the Venatori operation. The steep gully went deeper into the earth the farther she went until it ended abruptly in a face of uneven rock. But that didn’t make sense. That was until she noticed the equipment lying around the broken remains of what appeared to have been a door. Squinting, she saw a shadowed entry. An elven ruin, but she had no idea who had built it. _What is Corypheus doing here?_

“They stop at nothing,” Solas whispered, taking in the new scene with repulsion. “Carving out the healthy flesh in a desperation to find the disease, not realising _they_ are the disease.”

“A virus seeking to infect the world,” she murmured. “The question is, what new limb have they discovered here to serve as the host to aid their growth?” Solas’ fingers pressed into the hollow of her elbow.

“Let us return to Dhrui and fetch the others,” he urged. She nodded and slipped around him, heading back the way they came. Halfway to the lyrium spire, she caught voices coming around its faceted sides—on their level of ground. Solas froze behind her. She reached for him at the same he did for her—presumably to pull her into cover, but he yanked in the opposite direction she wanted to go. 

“This way!” 

“That’s _toward_ our enemies!” 

“There is more cover over there!” She put all her strength in tugging him between the roots of a mangrove tree growing out of the side of the cliff. 

“Did you see that?” a voice with a strong Tevinter accent asked in the direction of the lyrium. She met Solas’ glare, daring him to say something. A muscle in his jaw contracted as he cast his gaze beyond the tangle of roots.

“More of those imitator demons? I thought Decimus said they’d purged the place recently?” another said with annoyance. 

“Demons don’t run and I don’t think those were imitators. They didn’t look like any of our own.” _Imitators?_ she thought in puzzlement. The footsteps drew closer.

“Forgive me,” Solas suddenly whispered and before she could protest, he grabbed her around the waist, spinning them around a column formed of entwined roots. He trapped her with his body, bringing his cloak around them both. It was the _absolute wrong time_ to lose her focus then. She reached behind her, wrapping her fingers around the dagger sheathed at the small of her back as an attempt to steel her nerves with the real steel. Solas shifted slightly to the side to give her room. She removed it carefully, holding it down by her thigh. His hand tightened at her waist when a shudder ran through the roots as the Tevinter mages hacked through.

She stood on her toes, leaning in close to his face, barely breathing, “This is going to be messy.” 

She felt his head turn and his mouth pressed against the edge of her ear, “Was that ever in question?” She pulled away, meeting his eyes for a breath before she slipped from his grip and swung her dagger upward just as a man’s face came around the curve of their root column. He gurgled as it impaled his mandible through the top of his skull. The other mage behind him swore and suddenly the roots exploded, throwing her and Solas off the ledge and into the clearing below. She landed with a harsh grunt and rolled to her feet, spear materialising. She felt a small trickle of blood at her temple at the same time Solas’ back pressed against hers.

“How do we get out of this, _mis’sulahn_?” he drawled, casting a barrier around them both as several sets of eyes transfixed on them.

“Oh, now you’ll listen willingly?” she snapped, flourishing her dagger and spear.

“ _You_ got us into this. Get us out,” he said, and then he cast a wall of ice that was much less accurate without his staff. The lyrium abominations shrieked discordantly and charged around it at them. Maori trapped them with a lightning cage, but then narrowly avoided a fireball that crashed by her feet, shot by the mage still above.

“Since we are sorely outnumbered, we will run,” she decided, releasing her spear and grabbing his arm instead. He didn’t offer a snide comment this time, fleeing with her toward the ruin since the way out of the gully was blocked by an array of enemies. She threw up two more storm traps behind them and stopped in her path as the air suddenly thickened like syrup and the incomplete song filled her ears like cotton. 

She lifted her eyes to see Solas ahead, staggering back towards her, his features feral with fury. His hand came up sluggishly and a wild torrent of fire exploded from it, knocking aside the crooning red creature behind her. The flames engulfed it and the song cut off as the thing burned alive. Maori gasped, breaking free of its spell.

“What are these things? It has never been this strong in my experience,” she said, spitting and helping him to raise another wall of ice. The enemies on the other side immediately began assaulting it with blades and magic.

“There seem to be old magics in the ruin below that may be aiding them, but I cannot be sure,” Solas said as they backed down the incline. One of the twisted sirens managed to scale the ice wall, but she threw her spear at it, piercing through the remaining soft tissue at its throat. A man’s pained cry rang out and she thought for a split second that it had come from their fallen foe. When she spun back to Solas, however, he was gripping around the shaft of an arrow lodged in his thigh.

“Solas!” she cried and ran to him as more arrows whistled through the air. She threw up her Aegis and fed all her will into keeping projectiles out of it, forsaking the offence.  

“The ruin,” he said through gritted teeth as magic and red lyrium darts crashed against the barrier. “We need to get inside.” She nodded and wrapped her arm around his waist. Together, they ran down the bumpy path to the black wall ahead, rising in the night before them like a lightless mouth. Pained gasps escaped Solas with each step, but they finally reached the dark entry of the structure. 

“What if it’s a dead end?” she said, suddenly panicked. He turned his head to look over his shoulder.

“Hold the entry as long as we can…and hope that Dhrui has gone to fetch the Inquisitor,” he panted. Maori clenched her jaw, but assisted him down into the awaiting stairwell. 

“ _Hoping_ is not going to keep us alive,” she snarled when they reached the bottom in some kind of antechamber that had a single lit torch. At the base of the stairs was a circular mosaic inlaid with glass tiles that reflected blood red in the light. It was flanked by two suspicious pyramidal crystals. An earsplitting screech skittered down the stairwell from above and another lyrium beast blurred down the steps. She was forced to drop Solas, pulling her dagger out and summoning another spear. The creature seemed like it had come apart from the massive obelisk outside, it was so far gone from what it had been before its transformation. All jagged and sharp edges, it knocked the top of her spear to the side with a lancelike arm of its own and clamped its uneven jaws around the shaft when she tried to fend it off. Milky red eyes glared up at her hungrily as it swiped at her stomach. The music filled her head again and she fought against it, screaming at the top of her lungs in an attempt to drown it out. One of its arms reeled back and stabbed at her, but she caught it again with her dagger. Her eyes widened in horror as the point began to lengthen, inching closer to her face.

“Maordrid, drop your dagger!” Solas shouted. “Trust me!” She took a deep breath and released the blade and bent backward as far as she could as the lance of lyrium sang above where her face had been. There was a fierce cry from Solas as he caught its hilt and thrust it into where the creature’s heart should have been, pushing it through the crystal with magic. His leg buckled and he collapsed to the ground as the chamber filled with its dying wails, deafening her. It took a few more swipes at her that she narrowly dodged before tripping over Solas. With a blast of storm magic, she finished off the convulsing abhorrence. The creature fell, but she knew there was more coming—shouts were coming from above. 

But then, the tiles beneath them began to glow and the stone around them began humming with magic. 

“What—?” Her eyes fell to Solas where he sat clutching his bleeding leg. _Oh no. This is no ordinary ruin._ The glowing red sigil beneath them pulsated once and then a shockwave of magic shot through the room. The enemies attempting to make it down the stairway were vapourised. Maori bent down and looped her arms beneath Solas’, lugging him off the mosaic, but it was too late. Whatever dormant spell had been in the glass had been woken up by his blood and likely the power within the lyrium. The two pyramids were glowing faintly.

She heard fighting up above and immediately looked to Solas.

“Go,” he said with a nod. She darted back up the blood slicked stairs, but as soon as she reached the entrance she was blasted back by an invisible force. “Maordrid?” She gasped, clutching her nose now gushing blood. It felt like she’d been punched in the face.

“There’s a ward,” she called back to him, trying to inspect it, but the magic snapped at her like a wolf. Past the transparent wall and back up the path, green and purple lights flashed against the rocks. The sound of roots and earth being shifted around made her realise that Dhrui had come back with the others. 

Solas cursed from below and shouted another warning. Maori turned this time and threw herself back against the curve of the tunnel more out of surprise than anything, watching as two elves came running past her without a single glance her way. 

One wore her face—the other wore his.

_Imitator demons_ , she recalled the Tevinter saying. She watched helplessly frozen as imitator Maordrid and Solas passed through the ruin’s wards like ghosts, continuing up the cursed path. 

“They’re down here!” she heard Dhrui shout. The younger woman appeared just above the ridge of the path, beckoning to them. “You sodding morons, we need to get out of here! Demons attacked the camp and there’s no rift to tell where they’re coming from.” Maori’s stomach dropped.

“Dhrui!” she shouted, remembering her voice. She heard the false Solas say something too low to make out, and then they were leaving. “No! YIN! DORIAN!” She tried to step through the barrier again, but ethereal jaws jumped out again and gnashed at her arms, drawing blood. She lashed out with lightning instinctively and regretted it when the teeth finally got the purchase they were seeking—her magic. An involuntary scream tore from her throat as it sucked every drop of magic from her, then shoved her back when she was spent. Maori collapsed and braced herself on the stairs, sweat pouring from her face and bile rising up her throat. She vomited messily. When she recovered some, she looked back up where Dhrui and the… _imitators_ had been. They were all gone and the combat had ceased. Or perhaps it had moved back into the forest near the camp. 

“Maordrid?” Solas called again. 

“A moment,” she said weakly, spots appearing before her eyes. A ringing sound not of lyrium filled her ears and she quickly realised she was about to faint. She gulped in air as a sense of despair wrapped like a band around her head. She’d never been smited before, but it reminded her of what she’d heard described. And her damn nose was still leaking. She waited until she was certain she wouldn't pass out,

After, she all but slid back down the stairs on her arse where Solas had propped himself up against a wall away from the fallen red lyrium creature. She wouldn’t have minded a nap beside the thing at this point, but risking infection was a less tantalising idea. Besides, Solas needed her. He was looking at her with worry. When she shook her head, his face became grim. Maori fell heavily to her knees beside him and examined the arrow still in his thigh.

“Dhrui brought the others. I heard her say that demons had attacked the camp. They left,” she explained. “But those… _things_ wearing our faces…”

“Spirits bound to this place,” he answered, pain making his voice tight. “Ancient magic.”

“And blood magic, I gather.” He nodded.

“It seems we would have faced demons even if we had gone back,” he said. She held back a flinch as she moved his blood-soaked pants away. At least it was a normal wood and steel arrow.

“Has it gone all the way through?” she asked. 

“I think so,” he said. She placed her hands under his thigh and glanced up at him. He gave a curt nod and she lifted his leg up and rested his knee over her own so she could get a better look. She let out a relieved breath upon seeing a silver head poking through his torn flesh. It was a simple bodkin arrow, which meant the damage might not be as severe to his tissues.

“ _Ir abelas,_ ” she told him, drawing his gaze. 

“For which slight, pray tell?” Her fingers wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, bearing down on his thigh with her other hand as she snapped the fletching side. Solas bit off a cry, trapping his bottom lip with his teeth while he glared up at the stone ceiling.

“For that one. Are you ready for the second half?” He gave a weak nod and without another warning, she yanked the head free from the bottom and quickly applied pressure. He immediately placed his own hands over the anterior wound and stopped the worst of the bleeding with a pulse of healing magic, then repeated the same with the bottom. Maori released her cloak from her shoulders and cut a sizeable strip from it with her dagger, then carefully wrapped it around his leg. When she was satisfied with her work, she sat back on her bottom, hands resting on his calf. She wiped the blood from her upper lip and spat the sour taste of bile from her mouth.

“Let me see your nose,” he said, reaching out. “Is it broken again?” She leaned forward and let him run his fingers over her facial bones. The unpleasant sensation of her sinuses popping and then attempting to drain themselves occurred with the glow of his healing magic. His thumb ran across the bridge of her nose, but she sat back, hawking in the back of her throat and spitting a generous amount of blood clots and mucus to the ground. She sat in silence for a little bit, simply trying to gather her scattered thoughts and strength to her body.

“How is it the magic here is so potent after…who knows how long?” Solas’ eyes went to the corpse lying on the sigil by the stairs.

“Red lyrium has a certain power,” he said slowly, his lilting voice still tinged with pain. “It was growing out of the ground…I am thinking whatever the Venatori were doing here must have strengthened what lay dormant. Combined with our blood, it awakened _something_.” He finally looked at her. “I gather the way out is no longer open?” She shook her head.

“Yes, some kind of ward. I accidentally attacked it with magic and it syphoned everything out of me,” she said, abashed. “I think it used everything I had to strengthen itself.” Solas went pale, letting out a gust of a sigh. “Have something to add? 

“This place…” he paused, reconsidering his words. “It is an elven temple.” _Obviously._

“Are you saying you are familiar with the magic here?” she asked and surprisingly, he shrugged uncertainly. 

“While I _am_ reasonably familiar with ancient magics, this place is…elusive.” She gave him a dubious look.

“That is ridiculously vague, Solas, even for you.” 

“I am saying I need more to go off of before I can discern exactly what we are dealing with,” he said. To be fair, she was a little perplexed over the magic she’d seen as well, but she had her suspicions. Evanuris fuckery was afoot. She just needed to remember _which_ of them had had temples in this part of Orlais.

“Besides escaping being my primary concern, I am worried about the possibility that we may not be alone,” she said. He snorted, eyeing her.

“Do you think if we weren’t, more of them would not have come swarming out of the depths at the raucous we made earlier?” She considered the lone torch that was set by the only other doorway in the chamber.

“Maybe there are more wards like the one above. The others couldn’t see or hear me when I tried to get their attention,” she said. Solas groaned. “ _Do_ share with the far dumber children in class, _she’sileal.”_

“For once, I wish I wasn’t right,” he said.

“Oh please, _Pride_ , you have been wrong _a lot.”_ He looked at his leg still strewn over her lap as though he was considering kicking her.

“Based off what you have described, I believe we are in a temple of Dirthamen,” he said. She felt the blood drain from her face. “It is difficult to find any such memories of him in the Fade, as he was renowned for how he well he kept secrets.” _And he went mad. He scryed the darkest secrets, guided by Fear and Deceit. One does not smugly ‘bind’ demons and think themselves exempt of repercussions just because they believe they are above such things._

Although, she remembered the man once being divided on who to support. He hadn’t always been terrible, but like the other Evanuris, he had made several bad mistakes in the end. _Falon’din_ on the other hand, had been a bastard and likely had a hand in accelerating Dirthamen’s madness. If she had to pick between the two, she thought she would probably rather die, however. 

“So let us go off of what we do know,” she said. “The Venatori were here—they have an interest in something this place contains…or contained.” 

“Dirthamen had an affinity for blood magic, that much is apparent.” He looked like he wanted to say more, and she knew he had information but he was holding back for obvious— _stupid—_ reasons.

“And illusion magic, it seems, judging by the fact that even though I was standing in clear sight of Dhrui, they did not see me behind the ward.” Solas didn't answer. He was staring at her hands and she realised with mortification that she’d been idly running one lightly along his shin while she’d been thinking. “Sorry. Fidgeting…bad habit.”

“No! I…it felt…fine. It was distracting. From the pain, of course.” She tried to ignore the moths in her stomach.

“What else?” she asked. 

“Hm?” 

“Did you lose too much blood?” He blinked slowly at her. Maori grumbled under her breath and removed one of his moccasins—glad he had chosen to wear them that night, what with all the red lyrium around—and checked the capillary refill in his toe. It was a little slow. “Damn it, Solas. You weren’t supposed to get shot. That is my place.” She was relieved at least to have brought her waterskin. She untied it from her belt and took a drink herself before pressing it into his hands. 

“You are not a pincushion. Better me than you, anyway. _I_ can afford to lose a little blood,” he quipped, taking a sip. He seemed to realise just how much fluid he had lost and ended up drinking much more.

“I cannot afford to lose _you_ ,” she said with a little more fervour to her words than she meant to add. He looked surprised, then flattered. Then something dawned on her. “Is it possible that there are magics here that could influence us to say things we wouldn’t normally say?” Flattery turned to thoughtfulness.

“Possible? I should think so. After all, the magic of this temple seems to thrive on keeping secrets. What power it stole from you was likely redirected into the structure itself, to keep maintaining the spells in the grounds meant to protect and hide it from sight.” Maori frowned.

“Do you think those spirits pretending to be us…”

“They are bound by the magic here. As soon as they venture beyond the power sustaining them, they will either return to this place or…” Solas made only what she could describe as a ‘poof’ gesture with his hand. 

“You are oddly charming when you have lost too much blood.”

“I have been called odd and more rarely, charming. But not oddly charming.” She laughed, the stress of their situation slightly less terrible. She knew it could get a whole lot worse and she supposed she was dragging her feet a little when she _should_ have been looking for a way out…

She was beginning to think that the temple was trying to keep them there. Until all of their secrets were exposed, sucked from them like morrow from bones.

On that thought, she carefully replaced Solas’ moccasin and got to her feet.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sounding sad.

“Someone has to find a way out—” He started trying to get to his feet. “You are in no shape to—” He hobbled up surprisingly quick and very nearly fainted onto her when his heart clearly wasn’t as fast to compensate for the sudden motion. She threw her arms around his waist, his own bracing on either one of her shoulders. Her face smashed awkwardly into his chest, getting a mouthful of cotton. 

“And if you run into more trouble? No magic to protect you?” he growled into her hair, trying to right himself.

“I’ve a dagger, I can manage,” she said. 

“Absolutely not. Getting separated is foolish. Even you should realise that.” They glowered at one another, with his hand tangled in her braid and hers twisted clumsily in his shirt as though about to wrestle one another to the ground.

“I do. I just despise the idea of you in danger,” she admitted, then pulled his arm across her shoulders and encircled his waist with her own. At least she wasn’t so short to be completely ineffective as a walking stick. He leaned on her comfortably.

“Then as I see it, there should be no further disagreement, since we share the sentiment.” A spirit of Ornery Quips decided to possess her then and she laughed, giving him a sidelong glance as they reached the second door.

“Glad you are concerned for your own safety, Solas,” she said. 

“Oh for—I _meant—”_

“I know what you meant and it was a joke. Don’t get your heart racing, you will pass out and then I will have to carry you like I did after the dragon.” They continued the rest of the way in silence as Solas put his focus in moving with her. At the bottom, there was more light, though it was being emitted by more lyrium. Somehow, it was far colder. Her breaths generated clouds before her mouth. The crystals seemed to prefer the cold with the way they sang like cracking ice.

“Abnormal temperature for how close we are to the marshes,” Solas said. “It must be magically induced.”

“Red lyrium likes the cold. They must be intentionally growing it then. But that cannot be why they are here,” she whispered as they worked their way along a crumbling path and through a trickling stream. She’d misjudged the size of the temple. From outside, there was no way of telling that there was even one to begin with. The gully itself had seemed almost natural. But within, she was perturbed by how similarly open it was to a thaig. On one side of their path was a dark hole that dropped straight down into a fathomless abyss. Large square pillars lined the walkway itself in varying states of deterioration. When they reached the other side of the circular chasm, she looked back the way they’d come and saw a great stone owl carved in the rock directly above it. The red glow made its talons looks like they were wet with blood. _No question about it anymore._

They continued through a peaked doorway and into what appeared to be the sanctum itself.

“A bit…lacking, isn’t it?” she remarked. “The ruins I have always come upon usually always have more branches. Vestibules and sprawling chambers. Never so simple as a couple of rooms.” 

“Yes, and those usually were meant to house servants and other people loyal or familiar to the patron of such places. However, as you’ve observed…this was likely not meant to be lived in, apart from maybe the enslaved spirits.” They stopped at the top of a crumbling stair, surveying the sanctum. There were no signs of dwarven influence here. It seemed that Dirthamen had simply claimed an expansive cave and built around it. Flukes in the cavern ceiling allowed moonlight to filter in, dappling the stone path in silver. A pair of small streams with laminar flows were trickling out of the walls on either side of the chamber and over time had built up into two large circular pools that were kept unnaturally still by the magics still lingering. The placid waters were reminiscent of the Eluvians that Dirthamen had once coveted. It occurred to her then that the pools may have actually served that purpose at one time. They reflected everything, but also somehow did none of that. It was disorienting. _Scrying mirrors?_

Beyond the pools stood an altar upon a tall dais. The altar itself was a rounded shallow basin holding more waters. Its edges were encased in ice. Hanging directly above the altar was another strange pyramidal object inscribed with activated runes. She wondered if it was the source of the temple’s power.

Long lost mysteries aside, they had a much more present threat to deal with. Scattered along the path leading up to the dais were bodies. At the top was a single man standing with his back to them, head bowed, one hand on a black staff and the other upraised at the altar. 

Solas pulled at her gently, urging her into cover behind a pillar. They sidled back around it, peeking their heads out. 

“Some of those bodies aren’t only Venatori,” Solas said, again placing his mouth by her ear. She rebuffed a shiver. “I see elves…humans…”

“Slaves,” she realised. “A sacrifice, likely. That still does not explain what they are looking for here.”

“What else but the secrets this place has built up? If they can undo the magic hiding them, it may very well lead Corypheus to uncovering more ancient elven artifacts. Thus, more power.” She clenched her jaw.

“I wish I knew the bloody secret to unlocking the _vir’elgar’dun_. I could recover my magic faster,” she muttered. 

“We are certainly facing a dilemma. I cannot move fast and you only have your dagger,” he said.

“But you have your magic,” she said, turning to face him. His eyes skimmed along her features, lips curving down.

“You plan on taking him by surprise,” he deadpanned. She tossed a hand out, leaning closer to his face more out of frustration than the need to convey her thoughts quietly. 

“I _am_ open to suggestions,” she said, unsheathing her weapon. “Although I doubt you have thought up anything better than a stealthy approach. I can still fight.” His hand closed around her wrist, bringing it before his eyes.

“And I am not a fool. It drained your magic and left you weak.” She clenched her fist against the tremors she had been experiencing since then, yanking it free. “You are bound to get injured.”

“ _I have to try,_ ” she whispered. “For us.” The faint clouds of breath coming from his lips stuttered. “Oh, look, a spirit of Distraction!” He glanced up at her in confusion then to the side where she pointed. She leaned in and kissed his cheek with a wisp of a chuckle and pulled away quickly before he could react. A faint blush formed on his cheeks before she turned away completely.

“Good luck, _tarasyl'nin_ ,” he whispered after her.

Maordrid stepped from cover and centred herself, taking a slow, measured breath through her nose, becoming aware of her body and its position as she would in the beginning of _vir’elgar’dun._ Bending low at her knees, she descended the stairs, placing her feet on the steps first before applying the rest of her weight. 

_Heel, ball, and edge together. Roll inward—flatten sole. Next step, repeat._

She reached the bottom seamlessly. There was much more debris on the path ahead, especially around the bodies. Her thighs were shaking from the effort it took to move down the stairs silently. Maori paused, willing her body to relax, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen again. She flexed her fingers along the hilt of her dagger and kept going, slowly picking her way over the first of the corpses. Death glazed eyes stared up at her, faces frozen in eternal grimaces of fear and despair. She’d walked upon too many corpse-riddled battlefields to let the sight rattle her any longer. Once, she’d pitied the dead, sometimes shedding a tear or two for the lives taken prematurely. But now all she felt was anger. Few _truly_ deserved death. She’d always seen death as a mercy and these people had been given none. Her anger was for the innocents that had suffered before meeting their end. Their killers deserved to languish in suffering.

But she was no spirit of Justice. 

She wondered—and feared—if she would ever be able to look upon the deceased and feel nothing. That would be too close to what the Evanuris and their ilk had been. As long as she felt something, she supposed it made her better than them.

She heard someone humming a song to her right and froze, looking over. No, _they_ were dead. The red lyrium growing out of them, however, wasn’t. It was a nice tune, too. Reminiscent of the sea shanty she’d played for Solas weeks back. But it was like someone playing a lute that was much too out of tune. Or was it just in another key? A minor one, she thought. 

A noise from above and behind dragged her from her lethargic mind. The spell slammed into her before she could register what was going on, throwing her body back into the stairs. She lay there dazed, skull throbbing when she heard Solas shouting at her to get up. His voice was a song of its own that rose above the call of the lyrium.

Maori forced herself up and advanced across the length of the sanctum with less coordination than usual in her weakened state. She was like a raven with clipped wings--hopping frantically, limbs flailing as she avoided the Tevinter’s spells. A barrier settled over her skin like a glove. She ducked briefly as she reached the scattering of bodies once more and snatched up a broken sword. The mage remained at the top of the dais, now trying to split his attacks between her and Solas. Blood glistened on the man’s face and arms where deep cuts had been made in his flesh. She could feel the Veil warping and rippling around him. Shimmering faces passed in and out of sight as spirits strained against the thinning fabric separating their worlds. If he opened a rift inadvertently, unleashed would be the children of the Beyond and there would be no Inquisitor to mend the wound. She could envision herself trying to keep the demons at bay, feet squared defiantly, clutching her single fang of steel like a lame wolf. Fighting back to back with the Dread Wolf himself. She would rather go down fighting a futile battle against endless demons than spend their last moments trying to claw their way free of the wards that had sealed them in this tomb.   


_She_ would play the final note in her song. It was the only promise she had ever made to herself— _for_ herself. And she meant to keep it.

The air around _her_ suddenly began to feel hot, like standing beneath a focusing lens in the desert. She dove to the side as it exploded, feeling the heat on her back. She needed to work on having fewer inner monologues during times like these.

“You fool! You are going to kill us all!” she shouted up at the Venatori. He swept a hand out as though grasping at a fly in the air and a claw formed of his own blood lunged at her. She cut at it with the sword and her dagger, managing to sever the tip of the middle finger while using the same momentum to dodge it. Tired as she was, evasion and distraction was really her only option. Keep his focus on her and not on Solas, the only one who had any real chance at killing the mage wielding blood magic.

On that thought, with an underhand toss, she hurled the broken sword up at the man the first chance she got. It spun end over end and grazed his shoulder, but effectively drew his attention to her. 

“You would dare interfere with the Elder One and his rightful claim to godhood? These secrets are his to take! The whispers have guided him here to aid him in his holy mission! And _I_ will be the one to deliver that promise! I will be raised beside him—Decimus Harpocrates, the new God of Secrets!” The mage punctuated his dramatic declaration with a wall of fire that separated her from Solas.

“If these secrets wanted to be found, do you think you would be facing so much resistance from this place? That your people wouldn’t be dead at the hands of its guardians?” she shouted, grabbing a rock off the ground and leaping away from a lance of fire. 

“One must prove themselves worthy of such knowledge! It is a test. Not one a _rattus_ like you could even possibly begin to comprehend!” Decimus snarled, raising his arms with his staff of shining black obsidian. A spray of blood droplets sharpened into ruby points and sang through the air straight at her. Solas’ barrier took the damage, but shattered and exploded outward in a protective blast. Maori snapped her hips at that time and hurled the rock up at Decimus where it connected with his forehead. When he recovered, the entire skin of his forehead was peeled back almost to the peak of his hairline. Blood pouring down his face, the Venatori leader bellowed in rage and responded with an aerial projectile of magic that she went to avoid, but a gout of flame leapt up right where her foot was about to land, forcing her to tuck and roll, covering face as she tumbled through the flame. Her clothes took to the flame like an eager lover. Her mind immediately went to the transcript at her side, protected by some minor wards that would not be able to withstand his spell. But it would survive water. She threw herself into the nearest pool with a hiss of flame. Magic attempted to assault her from above, but couldn’t seem to penetrate the liquid mirrors. The attacks stopped disturbing the water and she saw a stream of white and red above as Solas engaged the blood mage. She broke the surface with a quiet gasp and swam quickly to the edge, pulling herself out. She retrieved her dagger where she’d dropped it a moment before and clambered up the steps while she still had the element of surprise. The Veil pulsated again, making her pause in fear that it was about to finally give. The faint outlines of demons were now beginning to appear, scraping their claws along the transparent silk her as she passed them. 

She readied her fang in her hand, coiling her body for the pounce where she would sink her steel into his neck. She pushed off of the ground at him, her muscles tensing in preparation, almost painfully. 

No, definitely painfully. Every fibre from her neck down contracted and she wasn’t falling anymore. Her fist ached around the hilt of her blade. She couldn’t draw breath, for her lungs refused to move, to expand again. She tried to call for Solas, but it came out as a croak. A red haze crept around her vision, but she saw Decimus half-turn to her with his black staff, raising a bloodied hand to her throat, forehead flap still folded back on his skull. _Solas, hurry!_ The man raised another wall of flame at the bottom of the dais—she heard Solas shouting up at her.

“I will smother the rest of your pathetic life force with my own hands, elf,” he snarled, wrapping his fingers around her throat. He bared yellow teeth, leaning in close to her face. “Your kin I sacrificed cried out to absent gods. Elgar’nan, Mythal, Dread Wolf. I invite you to try.” She grunted, fighting against his magic. “What’s that, _rattus?”_ The magic loosened only slightly around her vocal chords.

“Beware…the wolf in your…footsteps,” she said with the last of the breath in her lungs. The man grinned, waiting just a moment longer as though hoping something would happen. But then the blood began to boil in her veins. She couldn’t cry out. Blackness descended like the wings of a raven.

A wolf snarled and suddenly a pair of white teeth latched onto the man’s staff arm and _wrenched_. Decimus screamed and clawed with a flame-wreathed hand at the Dread Wolf’s jaws to no avail. Solas released him if only to make another lunge for his throat. Maori collapsed to the ground, sucking in air greedily. When her vision cleared, she saw that Solas had dropped his form and was now grappling with Decimus, the struggle made awkward with his wounded leg. Somehow, the Venatori had procured his own knife that Solas was fighting to keep away from his neck. Maori crawled agonisingly over to her own fallen weapon and dragged herself closer to them. Solas’ eyes flashed briefly to her face over Decimus’ shoulder, spotted the dagger clutched in her fist, and redoubled his efforts in pushing the blood mage back. The man took one fatal step back in an attempt to brace himself, but Maori sawed through the tendon of his heel with a cry of vengeance. The man screamed, toppling over her with Solas following him down. There was a gurgle, a slight jerking of limbs, and then silence. Maordrid extricated herself from the Tevinter’s legs and saw Solas crouched over the man’s corpse with both hands curled around the knife in Decimus’ throat.

With a small groan, he slid free of the body and onto the ground, immediately turning to her. They stared at one another, panting. She fell backward onto the stone with a relieved groan, letting her poor muscles rest. She heard a shuffle and then Solas’ grim face appeared above her. His hands found the sides of her stomach and a soothing wash of magic took away the worst of the pain. 

“I’m fine,” she said, voice rasping. “You are the one who lost blood earlier.” She managed to sit up again before her body could rebel into a recovery slumber. He looked peaky, especially around his lips. “Please lay down before you pass out.” She leaned over and pushed down on his shoulders. He barely resisted, laying back on the ground where he closed his eyes. “Breathe, damn you.” She watched as he took measured breaths through his aquiline nose. Slowly, colour returned to his lips. But not nearly fast enough. “We cannot afford another fight until we recover.” He nodded once. Maori fumbled with her waterskin, uncorking it and shoving it into his hands. They sat for a while, just resting. 

“It is truly remarkable how one moment you are the fiercest thing in the room and the next you are the kindest,” Solas said after some time. Between them, they’d drained her waterskin. It was tempting to drink from the pools, but that thought was more fantasy than anything she’d ever consider seriously. Solas handed her back the bladder.

“A matter of subjective perception,” she said, accepting it back from him, but when she twisted to tie it to her waist, she felt Solas’ fingers brush along her throat.

“There is a bruise,” he said with a spark of anger in his ice-blue eyes. She felt the stirrings of his magic, but she pulled his hand away from her shaking her head.

“Conserve your strength. We still need to find a way out,” she said, then sighed, meeting his gaze. “I will persist. And…thank you for saving my life.” Solas nodded, shoulders sagging in exhaustion.

“Even without magic you are impressive,” he said earnestly. “We work well together.”

“This would not have happened if I had not insisted.” She eyed him guiltily, leaning to the side to return her dagger to its sheath.

“Yet I followed because I have faith in your abilities,” he said, following her movements with his eyes. “Knowing full well we would likely end up fighting.”

“And here I thought maybe you liked me.” He pursed his lips. 

“I neglected to mention that was the primary reason.” She choked a laugh, then regretted it, rubbing her bruised trachea.

“So, really secondary since it so easily slipped your mind,” she teased. He began to smile, fought against it, then reached a stalemate that ended in a lopsided grin.

“Be assured that you do not slip from my mind, if ever.” Maori met his eyes.

“Then that makes two of us.” The other side of his lips caught up with the first corner. She got to her feet slowly and offered her hands. He took them and joined her with a small groan. Then the two of them regarded the altar at this new angle. There was the strange basin and the runed pyramid above, but beyond it the cave tapered and ended in a gold and blue mosaic of Dirthamen. Tucked in a corner beside the wall stood a desk bearing a neat arrangement of scrolls and notes. She left Solas standing by the basin to inspect its contents. They were all written in Tevene, with a scattering of elven words where the Venatori had been trying to translate. There was a thin journal that caught her eye lying atop one stack of notes where it sat open, a quill left forgotten across its pages, ink in its tip long dried.

  


[ _Orders/results desired: He speaks of a place somewhere in the Nahashin Marshes that is supposed to be full of answers. I was told the orb he possesses is of elven origin, so I figured we were looking for an old shrine or temple. Wish I’d been on the expedition in the desert—swamps are filled with leeches and your feet are constantly wet. I think I might have gangrene. But the loss of a few toes will be well worth the prize in the end. I will search.]_

  


_[Day 1: It’s been two months, though it is the first true day of research. We finally found the shrine, through dumb luck. Manaveris Dracona! The brave Templars that started taking the lyrium are to thank. The magics of this place seemed to react hungrily to its presence. But when we tried to breach the stone doors, demons came out of the solid stone, wearing our faces. We cut the first few down, but some escaped. Took a few days to expose the rest. They acted just like us. Ended up killing two of our own on accident trying to prove who was not a demon.]_

  


_[Day 6: Took five days to open those doors. Good thing Corypheus provided us with so many slaves. I sacrificed one of the marked knife ears that was spouting nonsense about bringing about the wrath of her gods upon our heads. Seems like her gods were pleased with her blood, since it opened the path within.]_

  


_[Day 12: This place is…wondrous. I can feel the magics whispering around me—through me. There are strange pools within the inner sanctum that are still despite the water continuously feeding into them. We took a sample to study, but every time it is removed it loses whatever properties it had before. I experimentally dumped some into the basin at the altar and some runes started to glow. I’m going to see what happens when it is filled.]_

  


_[Day 13: The whispers are stronger than ever. Some are loud, as though a person stands beside me. But I cannot understand elven. I brought one of those Dalish elves we captured in here to translate, but she wouldn’t stop screaming the whole time. I cut her hand and offered her blood to the altar…mists appeared. The girl spoke gibberish as though suddenly possessed by one of those ghosts. Her mind proved too weak and she went mad. I added what I could of her lifeblood to the basin. More runes have lit.]_

  


_Is…nuven…sul’ama…sul’anal…i ara el’u._

  


_[Day //: I have no memory of writing the words above. I don’t understand them. But I feel the intent. An exchange. A thousand small offerings…or one so heavy that…_ ] The recordings ended there.

  


She heard Solas before his hand fell against her back. She shifted to support him, then swept a hand across the table.

“This is all in Tevene,” he said, taking interest in the journal. He leaned forward, placing two fingers along the words on one of the sheets. “A diary log, judging by the format.”

“Did you learn anything at the altar?” she asked.

“The pylon seems to be partially activated. Decimus was using blood magic, but judging by the amount of bodies he went through, it was not enough to satisfy,” he said, sighing.

“Or maybe blood magic is one half of it.” He looked at her curiously. “Dirthamen, collector of secrets. Could it be as simple as…” She paused to swallow, then planted her finger below the elven just above Decimus’ final entry. 

“ _He desires to impart knowledge,”_ Solas translated easily. _“Serve…and my secrets?”_

“It is incomplete, but it sounds like whoever…or whatever wrote this—and I am guessing it was not Decimus—wanted to strike a bargain,” she said, looking back at the words in Tevinter. She sifted through the other scrolls and parchment lying about, but most appeared to be indecipherable scribblings. In one, she saw he had taken a stick of charcoal and tried to draw something. A face, maybe, but somehow it also looked like the runed pyramid. “Why is it that Tevinters always go mad before they can complete their research?”

“I gather that is a rhetorical question,” he deadpanned as she took the diary log and returned to the edge of the icy basin. She expected to see blood in the waters borrowed from the scrying pools, but they were pristine.

“What are secrets, Solas?” A cold mist was rising from the basin. There almost seemed to be a faint whispering coming from the pale streams, but she was probably imagining it after reading Decimus’ logs.

“In relation to Dirthamen…knowledge kept from all but his most faithful.”

“Simpler than that,” she said, shaking her head. There was a pregnant pause until she turned her head to look at him.

“Then…knowledge that is deliberately kept from others. Typically something that no one else is aware of.” 

“Does a secret cease to be one when shared?”

“A good question, but I fail to see where you are going with this.” She lifted the thin journal, pages fluttering.

“I know precious little of Dirthamen. But what I see here is old magic and too many mentions of secrets. That is what he desired, no?” Solas’ face went sour when he realised what she was implying.

“You seek to make an offering? You cannot possibly know what you are even bargaining with!” She threw her arms up and spun in a circle.

“Look around, Solas, we are trapped here! What else can we do?” His nose wrinkled, lips twisting up into a grimace.

“Even if we knew what the ritual entailed, there is no knowing what will happen.” 

“Then give me _something_ to go off of,” she snapped. “If completing what he started has a chance to lower the defences of this place, then shouldn’t we try it? I know that is what Yin would do.” His eyes went to the runes glowing on the stone pylon. She had an idea of what they were supposed to do, but saying anything now would be like reflecting the sun in a mirror at his face. Even her knowledge had its limits and what she knew of Dirthamen was only what he had permitted others to know. Ghimyean and Inaean had been marked for him—they would have the answers. But here was a man that had known him personally. 

“You may be right.” Maori raised a brow in surprise.

“Pardon, did I hear that correctly? I’m _right?_ ” she couldn’t resist sneering. It was his turn to toss a hand in frustration.

“Being petulant is not going to help the situation.”

“Then let’s argue some more since it seems that is the only way to get ideas out,” she bit back, then finally felt a little remorse. Maori pressed her fingertips into her eyelids. “I am sorry. I have been unkind and this is…stressful.”

“I know.” They lingered in silence, listening to the faint whispers caressing the air around them. “I have not been entirely forthcoming with what I know.” She peered at him from between her fingers. “This place…I believe it was once used to scry. Are you familiar with such magic?” Her gaze slipped to the pools.

“It had to do with…remote viewings? A person doing the scrying could stand on one side of the world and see something happening on the opposite side.” Certain Eluvians could accomplish as much. And maybe those giant waters.

“More or less. The Dalish side of elven legends are skewed from the more twisted truth. Dirthamen _did_ collect secrets and knowledge, but with the intention of weaponising it. He had a deep understanding of the Fade and may have been a Dreamer, but his use of blood magic made it difficult to utilise it.” For once, Solas looked like he was about to expire from his own long-winded explanations. He wavered on his feet. She rolled her eyes and returned to his side, coaxing his arm back over her shoulders. 

“Do not forget to breathe, bloodless one,” she muttered. His fingers twitched on her clavicle. Being so close to him so often she found had the same effect as running five miles without stopping. She focused stubbornly on their feet. 

“What was I saying?” he asked, voice vibrating through her arm. 

“How did Dirthamen collect his—”

“Ah, right. He harvested information using special enchanted mirrors and rituals to see through the Fade. His knowledge grew, but he desired more when he realised how much power there was to be found in it. He had the means to blackmail and coerce people to do his bidding.” Solas took another breath, rubbing the ridge of his brow between his index finger and thumb. 

“What about Fear and Deceit?” 

“I was getting there. They were spirits that he bound and used against others. Fear has a way of getting people to talk. Deceit…I am sure you get it.” She nodded. “He built up a reputation for being the one that could find answers and uncover secrets that no one else could.”

“People petitioned him,” she decided to add. 

“Indeed. They could offer a secret of their own in exchange for something they wanted to know…though most ended up in over their heads. Deceit was usually behind such bargains, tricking unwary people into giving away more than they meant to or not providing enough to satisfy the terms of their agreement. Thus, they ended up bound to him in some way. Forever made to whisper back to him. He built an empire of secrets.” She pulled away to look back into the basin.

“Going back to Corypheus…I wonder if he knew that about the elven legend. It would make sense why he sent so many in his stead. Plenty of people to make bargains,” she said. Her eyes fell to Decimus’ bloodied body on the top of the dais. “And to make the necessary sacrifice if needed. But his people did not know what they were getting into.”

“Their leader likely did not have a strong background in elven history, either,” he agreed.

“That brings us full circle,” she said. “You knew all along.” She faced him, composed. Solas’ own countenance was still as the pools. 

“I misjudged the magics here. Nor did I understand exactly what we were looking at until we killed the Tevinter,” he insisted. 

“Do you also happen to know what will happen if we offer secrets of our own?” she finally asked. “If the Dalish stories are to be believed and Dirthamen and his kin are locked away, then what do we have to worry about?”

“Plenty of things! There are always consequences,” he said, though it sounded like a reminder to himself. 

“You seem full of secrets. Or at least surprises. Maybe you want to offer one?” she tried. He shot her a flat look.

“You are the one who proposed it—which, might I emphasise, is something I am strongly opposed to,” he said. 

“Because you cherish your knowledge and secrets so dearly that I should be the one to make a sacrifice?” He flinched, but didn’t break her gaze.

“No.”

“No _what_ , Solas? Keep glowering at me and I’ll freeze your face like that forever.” His lips thinned in a bloodless line and he looked back at the altar for the thousandth time. “Fine. Maybe _I’ve_ been keeping something back as well.” 

“You— _ugh_. Nevermind. Go on.”

“I think I may be able to translate some of what is in this journal.” She lifted it before them, studying the words again, pretending to work out the script.

“I thought you only knew curses in all the tongues,” he quipped as her lips moved silently around the words.

“I learned a little when I spent time as a slave in Tevinter for a year,” she said, light as a cloud. She felt his gaze on her. “I fought in an arena for my freedom.” _Along with studying the language for the_ other _Solas._

“For an entire year?” _Yes, also several centuries ago._

“I made friends with some other less skilled slaves and championed for them to help secure their freedom. It took a while. Please stop staring at me like that.” 

“You never told me that.”

“It was not something I wanted to share. A secret, if you will. Now you know why large human cities make me uneasy.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Let it remain in the past.” She sought the last entry, eyes skimming along it. “Here. I think he mentions the terms of the agreement he was approaching. ‘ _A thousand small offerings or one so heavy that…’_ It breaks off after that.”

“A thousand is more often than not a figure of speech meant to imply a much higher amount,” Solas said, squinting at the sloppy writing. 

“If it is referring to secrets, then maybe it means a handful of tiny ones—like bits of gossip or rumours caught in passing. Orlesians would have no problem with that.” He was quiet, but she recognised the conflict in his face—the tiny lifting of his inner eyebrows, the way the bow of his lips thinned ever so slightly, and the hardening of his eyes. 

“Or one so profound that it would affect people beyond the one guarding it.” She looked at him and in that instant, she could read exactly what was on his mind.

_I’m the Dread Wolf. I’m the Dread Wolf. I’m fucking Fen’harel, the bloody Dread Wolf._

_Awooo!_

The perversity of it—and their situation—made a snort escape the back of her bruised throat. A low, delirious laugh followed it until she was half-bent at his side, tears in her eyes. Dhrui would be so proud of her.

“I fail to see what is so funny about this,” Solas said stiffly, but she thought it was because he was upset she hadn’t included him.

“Really? Look at us, so grim and assuming the worst. I am sure we both have secrets as black as the Void itself. Everyone does. But…who said we had to give up our own? And it likely isn't just secrets--Dirthamen wanted knowledge, as you said. Precious knowledge.” A light grew in his eyes and his lips parted. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so pretty.” 

“You have been spending far too much time with Dhrui and Dorian.”

“Is it obvious? So. What do we know that would appease the magics here?” she asked probably a tad too eagerly. 

“Something that does not relate to the Inquisition. We would not want that coming back to us,” he said.

“But everything surrounding it has affected thousands of people. It holds weight and therefore power,” she argued. He looked considering. Maori unsheathed her dagger again and stood before the basin. 

“I do not like this,” he said in a low voice. Maori offered the blade to him, but he didn’t take it, predictably. 

“As I thought. Now help me come up with something.” She slit her palm and held it above the waters. She didn’t bother to hide the way her hand trembled. Blood dripped into the basin and the waters illuminated faintly—the quiet mists began to swirl as if by an invisible breeze, rising up like a water spout over the sea. Above, the pyramid began to hum and the air around it felt charged with static. Whispers filled her ears.

“I will never forgive myself if something happens to you. Not again,” Solas said. 

“That is not a—” she cut off when three runes lit up at once, all green. “Oh. That counted, I think.” _Three? That must have been a difficult admission._ “Well. Know that if something terrible happens to you, I will turn back time to fix it.” She thought she saw the outlines of ghostly elves standing around the basin, staring at her. Solas didn't seem to notice them.

“That is absurd—” Three more blue flickered. There were six remaining. “Ah. That is…I do not know whether to be disconcerted that you mean it or flattered that you would attempt what Alexius failed to do himself.” She tried to smile, but the magics around her were overwhelming her ability to focus beyond anything but the waters.

“Another,” she gritted out. “Quickly.” The dagger was gently removed from her hand and a slight tug at her back told her Solas had replaced it. She felt his warm fingers lace with her free hand. The contact anchored her to reality, keeping her from being swept away by Dirthamen’s cursed spell. “What…what about something that _could_ affect people.” She thought of the transcript at her side, sifting through the hundreds of secrets it held in her mind. She wished she could just toss the thing into the basin and be done with it. 

“You do not want that on your head,” he said, gripping her hand tightly. She shut her eyes.

“We know that the Empress of Orlais is at risk of assassination,” she tried. Solas held his breath beside her.

“That was only one,” he said. She swore an oath about Orlesians and cabbages. “Well said.”

“Corypheus carries an orb belonging to a member of the elven pantheon of deities.” They both looked up, but nothing happened. “Maybe Decimus already shared that.” Solas said something in elven too rapid for even her to make out a single syllable. She glared at him, but then _four_ lit up and she cursed the whispers—voices—filling her ears. “What did you _say?_ ” 

“A promise. To you.” He met her eyes and flashed a small, sad smile.

“Why do I hold so much weight in your mind?” she whispered. “Do not make promises you cannot keep. This might not work how we think and we could both die.”

“You do not know what I said.”

“I do not need to.”

“It is done, anyhow. We need one more.”

“Well, clearly this place likes your knowledge more than it does Orlesian Empresses. That is probably not something to be flattered over.”

“I am not flattered. I only said something that I have been struggling with extensively. It appreciates knowledge that brings suffering.” She worried her lip between her teeth, tilting her head against the constant susurrous of voices. _Na…emas…mah’eolas…vin…vin…dala Fen’harel…_

“I bring you suffering?” 

“A kind I have not known for a very long time. Although the benefits far outweigh it.” _Na i is sul’ema din…_ She looked across the altar where the spectres were more solid now.

“What do _you_ understand?” she snapped at them. Solas narrowed his eyes. “Not you.”

“You are hearing voices and you _didn’t say anything?_ ” he hissed.

“Yes, and they say you drool in your sleep.”

“Your facetiousness is doing you no credit here.”

“ _Sul'emal mor'lestun ma_ , Solas. This is not exactly comfortable— _I am going to personally hunt down Dirthamen and shout in his ears for a thousand years!_ Might I have a _moment_ of quiet?” The individual whispers converged into sinister laughter. “I know you do not want to impart knowledge that could hurt any of our friends, but…I swore to prot—” Something truly unsettling appeared beside the basin where the slight outlines were and whatever she had been about to say turned to ash on her tongue. A familiar conical hat. “ _Ghi’len?”_ Solas followed her gaze.

“Are you hallucinating? _Fenedhis,_ Maordrid!” She ignored him, eyes searching the empty air, skull brimming with questions.

_“Tel’laim mar’lin.”_ The voice was clear as day beside her ear. _“Lasemah is banal.”_ She swallowed. _“Ar lasa mala revas.”_ Something cold passed through her fingers splayed above the altar and she gasped in pain. The flesh turned white, bloodless. It felt as though a cold hand were gripping her own—and it was. Magic coursed through her as though she’d touched a bolt of lightning, and then suddenly the contents in the basin exploded upward, tossing them off their feet. When they gathered their bearings, they looked up to see that the waters had blasted the runed pyramid to pieces and froze in a geyser of ice. Blood and sickly green magic dripped from the ceiling where it had been. 

A chorus of shrieks and wails rose toward the back of the sanctum—from the giant hole in the second chamber. There was a sound of water splashing to her left followed by the scent of brine. When she looked, the mosaic of Dirthamen was flickering.

“He freed us. Let’s go!” Maordrid clambered back to her feet and all but threw Solas over her shoulders. They ran-limped through the mosaic. She peered over her shoulder one more time as they passed through and saw the cavern beginning to fill with water at the same time that it began to collapse. The wall solidified, blocking her view. They were encased in darkness until Solas conjured a flame of veilfire. The area was bathed in its soft azure light.

“Look!” Solas breathed. It appeared they had fled into a single chamber with a crumbling staircase. But in the centre was a plinth bearing a single smooth disc that was reflecting the light. There were a few other smaller treasures scattered around—gold, an amulet or two, a bow—but the main focus was clear. 

She released Solas and approached it, then ran a hand over the disc sensing for wards around it. But whatever Shan’shala had done through her seemed to have ruined the wards. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands to see that it was some kind of buckler shield. The straps were neither metal nor leather and it hummed with complex magic. 

“I think this might have had something to do with the power of the wards here,” Solas said as she slid her left hand into the grip. He poked at it with his own magic and watched as a familiar pair of jaws jumped from the reflection at his hand. 

“Careful. Last time those took everything I had,” she cautioned. He nodded and tilted his head back, looking up.

“If the stairs are not completely destroyed, I believe there is a way out. We can grab what fits in our pockets and leave this place. I would not like to linger, should the waters reach this chamber.” So they grabbed a handful of gold and an amulet each, Solas threw the bow over his shoulder, and together they tackled the stairs.

She allowed herself a sigh of relief when tepid, marshy air hit her face near the top. The way out was blocked by a mess of roots and miscellaneous debris, but with a blast of magic from Solas’ hand, the obstacle cleared. Just beyond, a pre-dawn forest awaited them.

They hobbled outside, battered, wet, and exhausted only to not recognise the area around them.

“The shrine was not a sprawl. We could try to trace back and make our way to the camp,” Solas said, facing the opposite direction she was.

“The others will not be there,” Maori said. “Remember, demons. They could not find a rift so they decided to flee. I imagine they would not have chosen to do that if Frederic was not with us. And all of our mounts. Safer to leave altogether.”

“Our so-called imitators went with them,” Solas realised with resignation in his tone. “Hopefully they were quick to escape the boundaries of this place before the creatures could take them unawares.”

“Even if ‘we’ suddenly vanish, I do not think the others will come back for us. Maybe they will wait somewhere on the Imperial Highway?” He looked considering.

“A logical thought. Yes. I say we circle back to the camp just in case.” She nodded and wrapped her arm around his waist once more. 

The silence that fell over them was comfortable, though both seemed to be lost in their own heads. It was only once the obelisk of red lyrium poked through the trees that Solas finally broke the silence.

“We learned that Corypheus is attempting to seek out more elven artifacts. I worry what other Venatori cells he may have scattered across Thedas in his search.”

“I had hoped to preserve the shrine for the Inquisition to come back and study, but I think it is better it met the fate that it did. Better two experienced Fadewalkers than Inquisition mages that would likely have gone mad.” She sniffed through her blood encrusted nostrils, feeling a mask of grime and sweat on her face as she did. Solas’ thumb rubbed along her shoulder.

“Back in the sanctum you said someone freed us,” he said in his quiet manner. “I doubt you were referring to Dirthamen.”

Her heart pattered against her ribcage, the vision of Shan’shala standing between the faceless spirits of Dirthamen’s. “My…friend. Somehow he was there and he did something. Touched my mind—or maybe my spirit. Whatever it was, he channelled _through_ me.” A horrific thought dawned on her and her legs gave out. She fell to the ground, staring sightlessly into the detritus of the forest. “Solas, what if…what if Protection didn’t escape with us? _Oh, void,_ what have I done?” He knelt before her and placed his hands on her shoulders, guiding her to look at him.

“If it is anything like you, I do not think it would allow itself to be trapped,” he soothed. She looked away, anguished.

“You always say such kind things of me, but you cannot cover the fact I almost betrayed everyone to the hungry jaws of Dirthamen,” she spat. “All to save us. I do not understand why Protection would risk its existence for that when all my _ghi’len_ has ever taught me has been to protect others.” 

“We all make mistakes. Learn from them,” he said, placing his hand against the side of her neck. “Your bond runs deeper than a simple friendship, _ma bana’ean_. You are special and your _elgar’falon_ knows that as well.” Her heart leaped with his gentle smile. Maori leaned forward and pressed her brow to his with her eyes closed, curling her hand around the back of his head. His own fingers pressed against the back of her braid. His breath ghosted across her cheeks and though they both reeked like a crypt, he still retained his faint scent of star anise and untouched forests. Two anachronistic souls kneeling together in the heart of a forest. A moment of respite as they passed through the eye of the storm, drifting to the other side where the darkness awaited. 

She felt him move—but she lost her nerve and leaned back. The amount of physical contact with him was finally catching up with her head and heart. _Void, Dhrui was right. I am touch-starved._

Solas was looking at her lips, but she averted her gaze to the forest, swallowing her emotions. She was glad for the filth that could hide the sudden flaming redness of her cheeks.

“We still have a long way to go on foot, _ma fen_ ,” she said, getting achingly to her feet. He remained where he was, staring down at his hands in thought. “Something wrong?”

“No, I…had a thought. _Fen i bana’ean_ ,” he said slowly. “How is your mana? Is it returning yet?” She paused, turning her gaze inward briefly. There was perhaps a puddle’s worth of it. Lower than it had been in the Fade at Adamant.

“I need to sleep to recover it,” she said. “Why?”

“Because if the Inquisitor and the others left us, they would have taken our mounts. If you were strong enough, we could both take on more favourable forms for travel.” She blinked. 

“That did not even occur to me.” Maori looked down at his injured leg where blood had stained her cloak-dressing. “You should heal first before we try that.” He nodded tiredly and allowed her to help him back up. 

“I think we can afford to rest once we investigate the campsite. Preferably farther away from the temple.” She grunted her agreement and they set off once more, retracing their steps. Once they reached the creek some way downstream, she was reminded of something that made a small laugh escape her sore throat.

“I may need to have a scorching word with Dhrui when we find them,” she said, stepping down into the creek waters that reached her thighs. She was still wet from her plunge into the scrying pools. Solas kicked off his moccasins and joined her. Holding hands, they crossed the chilly water and back onto dry land.

“Ah, yes, the meddling meddler who meddles,” he said, though not without fondness.

“A succinct, yet perfectly accurate description of her,” she snorted. “Going forward, I will be eternally paranoid of suggestions to stargaze.” 

“A pity, since I was looking forward to it,” Solas sighed. “Although, we will likely have plenty of time to do that while we remain out here.” She pinched his side, causing him to jolt and grip her fingers tightly, prising them away. _Unbelievable. He is ticklish._

She said nothing, filing the secret away.

“Demons,” she said instead, distracting him. Ahead lay the sewage-coloured corpses of terrors and piles of ash where Rage demons had been dispatched. Giant roots twisted up from the earth, twining and braiding between some of the trees as a bid to keep them at bay. The area was still thick with residual mana from their companion’s flight. Maori and Solas worked their way around the wall of Dhrui’s roots and cut through the undergrowth before finally coming upon the clearing where the camp had been. The fire pit appeared to have exploded at some point, by appearance of the ash staining the ground and the massive black scorch mark in the centre. A bit of canvas and small timbers remained of one of the tents, but it seemed like they had managed to escape with the rest of their belongings. 

“There is nothing here for us,” Solas intoned. She nodded.

“Let’s get out of here. I am tired and my clothes are starting to chafe,” she said. 

“No complaints about supporting half my weight?” he remarked wryly.

“I have carried men with more muscles than Yin across my shoulders,” she said gruffly. “You are positively weightless compared to them. Although, my spine is not appreciative of this angle.” With the _slight_ height difference, she had been forced to walk the last several hours on a tilt. Solas shifted as though he meant to walk alone, but she tightened her grip. “You are _also_ the only thing keeping me warm.”

“You should have said something earlier! I still have my magic.”

“When we stop, I will take you up on that offer.” 

And so they trekked on until she began to feel Solas’ obliques contracting jerkily beneath his tunic with each swing of his injured leg. His jaw was set and sweat was beading on his brow, but he seemed determined to continue until she said something. Fortunately, it was not long. Cover was taken beneath an overhang formed of a large boulder and a fallen tree, just in time for it to start raining.

Solas tossed the bow to the side and sat down heavily, singeing off the dressing at his leg. He promptly fed healing magic into the wound with a groan of relief. 

“Will the muscle not be weaker and more prone to injuries with that amount of magic?” she asked, watching with morbid fascination as the hole closed and a raw pink scar formed.

“Yes, but we are in a marsh where things fester quickly. I do not want to risk infection,” he said. “I will simply have to train with you and Dhrui to rebuild my strength.” She met him with a challenging expression, but said nothing as she removed her wet half-cloak. Solas took it from her grasp and leeched the damp from it with a fire spell, the water evaporating in a cloud of white. 

“Do you want to take shifts?” she asked, accepting it back. He shook his head.

“I can set wards and we can both sleep,” he said, climbing to his feet and walking out of cover. 

“Ah, right. Still. I do not trust these woods.” She watched a shimmering field of lagoon-blue magic rise in a wide perimeter. The tips of his elegant fingers glowed as he traced a glyph in the air, waving a hand across it once he was finished. When he turned back, he sat unconcerned against the rock.

“We should be fine. If anything approaches, we will know when they come within ten meters. Enough time to run, if need be.” He patted the ground beside him and she couldn’t resist the invitation. Her body screamed its gratitude when her bottom touched the soft soil. Solas threw his cloak over both of them. Maordrid leaned her head against the stone in thought, but realised there was a familiar quiet emanating from the man beside her. 

“You never stop thinking, do you?” Solas chuckled.

“No.”

“What is on your mind, then?” she asked, rubbing her sore thighs. _Bloody blood magic._

“The shrine of Dirthamen,” he returned, “I was reminded of something I never asked of you.” She waited. “Do you subscribe to any religions? Andrastianism or the elven gods? Something else?”

“Old Gods,” she said and watched mirthfully as he turned his head to gawk at her. When he saw her face, he rolled his eyes and resumed looking out at the falling rain. 

“You have demonstrated knowledge of the elven gods,” he pressed. “Am I to guess that you believe in them?”

“Would it surprise you to learn that I believe in none of them?” She really didn’t want to have this talk. She was far too tired for philosophical or theological discussion.

“Not at all. You are too individual…or independent to fall into one of those categories. I had only thought to ask as a segue.”

“A segue into what?” she asked, a bit wary.

“What we…spoke of in the shrine. In my experiences with the Dalish, I have attempted to share knowledge similar to what I shared with you today,” he said, talking slowly. “They do not take kindly to learning that their benevolent gods are not so perfect as they think.” 

“I am not Dalish. I am a wandering apostate and a Dreamer,” she thought to remind him for the hundredth time. 

“Yes, and you have a worldly wisdom about you, gleaned from your experiences,” he commended. “But we have Dalish companions that might not appreciate such truths.” She rolled her head to look at him. He did the same and she saw an edge of wariness to his features. Not a threat, but…worry, maybe.

“Maybe they would not be pleased at first, but what did I say about having expectations of people? Have none at all.”

“I think you misunderstand—I have experienced—”

“Experience isn’t everything,” she interjected. “If we are going to pretend I never mentioned expectations, then let us give our _friends_ the benefit of the doubt. Consider sharing the truth with them.” That shut him up. “I will leave it up to you, but know if you do, I will stand beside you.” Her eyes flicked down to the cloak at her thigh when his hand took hers beneath it.

“Thank you, Maordrid.” She heard the deep gratitude in his voice and gave his hand a squeeze. His fingers laced between hers like poison. A delicious, painful poison. She lay her head on his shoulder.

“You are are difficult man. But I will keep plying reminders upon you until they seep into that thick skull of yours.” A weak laugh rumbled through his chest before he rested his cheek against her head.

“That would be well.”

With his warmth at her side and the soft hush of rain around them, she let herself be lulled to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dun'vir'durgen _\- 'body meets earth' ('cause Maori really wants to throw down)__  
>  _Ma harel, da'len_ \- you lie, child  
>  _Mis'sulahn _\- blade song/blade singer (just tried to come up with an endearment for Mao)__  
>  _Nuise’silhasis_ \- 'scorched brain' (lit. means 'scorch/burn neurosis'...I mean to say something like fried-brain)  
>  _She'sileal_ \- quick-mind/thought  
>  _tarasyl'nin_ \- storm  
>  _na…emas…mah’eolas…vin…vin…dala Fen’harel… _\- you hold future knowledge...yes...yes...to kill Fen'harel (just weird dead elf ramblings ok)__  
>  _na i is sul'ema din_ \- you and him bring death...  
>  _Sul'emal mor'lestun ma_ \- 'Give slack to the lines' (really bad attempt to make a mooring/sailing metaphor...Essentially, 'cut me some slack')  
>  _Tel'laim mar'lin _\- do not lose yourself__  
>  _Lasemah is banal _\- Grant him nothing (Dirthamen)__  
>  _ma bana'ean_ \- my raven (lit. black bird)
> 
> Also, here's a picture I basically borrowed as an idea for the altar:  
> [(x)](https://pin.it/qavxcbn2jnllux)  
> [second room inspiration](https://pin.it/5t4mof4zqhsqni)  
> Thought I had one for the main sanctum, but I guess not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Here's my art for the end!:::::  
> 


	77. The Wings of Fear and Deceit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are seriously the best. Your comments and kudos really do mean the entire world to me. Also this fic has consumed my life.

  


Maori opened her eyes, expecting a blank slate of Fade, but instead found herself sitting on a shore facing dark seas. The eternal bearded white skies hung above her, contrasting starkly against the waters. She knew if she looked to her right she would see the fishing village, perched upon its cliff like a flock of gulls huddling together. But to her left, she’d see a bamboo forest upon a cliff and its small tower where she had once lived with Shan’shala. _This memory is the last remaining of my roots. Yet even my memory is unreliable. Something has always felt…missing._

She got to her feet and went west toward the tower. The black sands of the shore glittered like inverted constellations beneath the overcast skies. Maori watched her feet tread the sand, never leaving a print. She never had. Like she was lighter than a memory. There had been times in her youth when the world had been vast and brimming with endless possibilities. Merely walking had been cause for long periods of study. When she had finally left the village in company of her dwarves, she remembered how swiftly the outside world had overwhelmed her, threatening to sweep her away in a riptide.

Grandda…or Skarbnik, his Stone-given name, had tossed her a rock brought from far beneath the earth.

_“When you feel like you are too light, little airling, remember the Stone and let it ground you. Let nothing move you.”_ She had thought him daft, handing her a stupid rock. His first act of kindness had been the last for a while. Her arrogance had not made her many friends. Yet dwarves were stubborn and that band of brothers had beaten down her more insufferable characteristics like hammers on an anvil.

She remembered throwing that stone away several times out of frustration with them. Somehow it _always_ turned back up. Usually she’d wake up to it lying in the centre of her chest, making it difficult to breathe despite it being smaller than her palm. The dwarves had thought it a damn riot.

Years after they had parted ways, she ended up treasuring the special stone, worrying a depression into its surface any time she felt too light. And one day it had finally worn into nothing. It never returned. Yet even an aeon later, when she could still recall the texture, colour, and cool smell of that little token, she had never been able to make the Fade recreate it. She had nothing physical left to remember her adopted family--dwarves or elves.

Maori pushed her way through the jointed boles of the forest and emerged onto a path made of planks built of the very trees around her. It wended its way along the rising incline of the cliff, ending at a stone staircase hewn from the earth. The tower was nothing grand. It was a shack compared to what could have been seen in Arlathan or any of the cities built by the Evanuris. It was a simple hexagonal spire of exactly twenty-two meters in height, with a flat top where she had spent many days practising a variety of different skills Shan’shala and Valour had thrown at her.

Her feet carried her body up the sand-flecked stairs and soon she was standing in the entry, hand holding open the old oak door. The bottom chamber was where she had eaten, made clothes, and lived, but above, in the only other room was where she had done her studies and slept.

She hesitantly ascended the spiral staircase, the feeling of intruding on somewhere private increasing with each step. But that was a silly notion. Maori entered the top chamber—empty, as the bottom had been—and strode out onto the small balcony overlooking the ocean. Her arms crossed over her stomach as she wondered if it was selfish to wish that Solas was there with her, even though her body was propped up against his in the waking world. He was a true comfort, even if he made her feel a little too light at times. 

But heavier and lurking in the shadows just behind her heart was an assassin waiting to strike. The last part of her that was clinging on like a limpet, competing with those softer, brighter emotions. She'd dived off of sea cliffs with less thought. But this...this was deeply rooted. Taught by the gods she had served to never give beyond what was required by her duty--do not deviate from the mould. Duty as a warrior made it simple—one was bound to a purpose and only expected to care about carrying it out without distractions. It was worse now that she was more than that, even though she hated to acknowledge the truth. She’d been made a _leader_ and leaders were meant to inspire hope in those that they led. She was awe inspired that Yin Lavellan could do all of that and not be afraid to love. She could fight—do what needed to be done without unnecessary emotions clouding her judgement…but she could not give them hope. Not when hers had been snuffed out long ago with her dwarves. A small part of her still held disdain for Solas. Mythal, the glorious and fierce ‘Protector’, was responsible for their deaths. Maodrid did not care for her reasons. Only Mythal’s actions, and her actions had brought about the decimation of countless lives. After all she had done, Solas grieved for her loss. His rebellion had been founded on her death. 

Without Shiveren and Inaean’s intervention, Maordrid would have eventually made an attempt of Mythal’s life herself. She would have died trying and her name would have either been struck from all memory or remembered as _harellan._

She came to Elvhenan to serve a higher purpose and her hopes and trust had been betrayed. 

_Never again._

She supposed her agreement to join Solas’ cause had been partly selfish. _Take them all down from the inside,_ she remembered thinking. 

A memory of Yrja wavered into existence beside her, the angles of her face sharpened by fury. She had been more armour than elf at that time, donning the sentinel’s raiment and only ever taking it off to care for it.

_“I want to see the Evanuris suffer,”_ the memory snarled, gauntleted fingers nearly bending the metal of the helm tucked beneath her arm. _“But never forget that he who leads us was once the Queen’s cherished friend himself. And try as he might, he cannot paint over her shortcomings like one of his murals.”_

_“Even you cannot deny the good that Mythal did for you, Yrja,”_ another voice said out of view. It might have been Shiv…or Ghimyean. Maybe someone else. She couldn’t remember. Ghimyean might have already been missing by then.

_“I am not. I do hurt for her loss, but I will not shed tears. I must keep my eyes clear, for I swear to watch every movement Fen’harel makes from here on out.”_ The vow had been spoken with sickening certainty. She remembered how her black hatred had kept Shan’shala away. He hadn’t recognised her at her worst. 

_“You cannot possibly mean to kill him?”_ Yrja’s head turned to the speaker, silver eyes flashing like steel.

_“Should he turn on us, yes. Without a doubt.”_ Maordrid’s entrails knotted at the admission, twisting all the way up into her heart.

_“We swore an oath—”_ Yrja turned back to whatever she was looking at, the movement in itself cutting him off.

_“We are allies of his, not slaves.”_ She always spoke with the imperialism of a Command spirit. So harsh and merciless in appearance yet nothing but a tempest of conflicting emotions on the inside. _“I may resent him his loyalty to Mythal, but do not mistake my scorn for Fen’harel as a flaw. I have immense respect for him and all that he has done for the People thus far. But power should be checked, no matter how well intentioned the people are that hold it. And so I will watch him.”_

Ironic that she would be one of those to guard his body. And she had, religiously. 

When the memory returned to the Fade, Maordrid could only think about how the words she had spoken couldn’t be further from the truth at present. She wouldn’t raise a finger against Solas. 

It was a difficult notion to swallow that he might do more than that to her once he found out who she was. The prospect of dying wasn’t what scared her—it was the _reason._ That he might see her as a traitor or that she had used him. Before getting to know him in this timeline, she wouldn’t have cared. Now…now she did more than care and it _hurt_. 

It gnawed at her like a wolf with a bone. 

Footsteps echoed in the chamber behind her, and for one stupidly hopeful moment, she thought it might be Solas. She felt bad for spirits of Hope. They probably gave her a berth as wide as the sea.

_“You live.”_ The words fell from her lips as an utterance of relief. She stepped to the side to allow Shan’shala to join her on the balcony. _“I had feared the worst. I do not know what I would have done if that had been the end.”_

_“You would continue on, as your Pride has done with his Wisdom,”_ he replied, sounding tired. She looked at him worriedly. The spirit seemed slightly diminished—diluted, almost. It was so unlike the immovable presence he had always been, with roots in the Fade as deep as a mountain. Her emotions threatened to spill over, but she forced herself to be calm. A novice’s mistake to lose control. Shan’shala was still a spirit that could be corrupted. 

_“How? What did you do?”_ she asked in a hoarse whisper. A small smile curved his leathery lips.

_“That is not for you to know.”_ Whatever it was, she was comforted to know his usual vagueness and feistiness remained intact.

_“Then what did you to to me?”_ she tried instead. 

_“You and I are cut from the same sailcloth. Yours may have more patches gathered from along your rough voyages, but the old threads still remain.”_

_“I have done my best to follow your teachings, hahren.”_ An aura of perplexity arose from his direction which in turn pulled her own. When she turned her head, he quickly looked away.

_“You…do not remember.”_ Her own confusion now overpowered his own. 

_“Could you enlighten me?”_ She tried to keep the exasperation from her voice and failed. 

_“No. That is for you to discover on your own. You chose this path—you must jog your own memory. I am not an Archivist.”_ She breathed a cloud of smoke through her nose but fell silent, crossing her arms tightly at her chest.

_“I want to know why you saved us. You turned your back on me.”_ His throaty chuckle filled her ears, reminiscent of sun-warmed planks and the creaking of a hull.

_“I am a spirit, I merely vanished to another part of the Fade.”_

_“Semantics._ ” Maordrid walked back inside and climbed the stone ladder leading to the very top of the tower. When she pulled herself through, Shan’shala was already there, sitting upon one of the merlons where he was running a whetstone along an ethereal single-edged blade. With each rasping stroke, she felt like her soul was wearing away with guilt.

_“I see you have yet to learn self worth, child. Long have I been a protector of those that need protecting. Until I am vanquished, that is all I will ever be. Do you think that I would turn away from my own ward?”_ Maordrid took a perch across from him, taking in the view of their safe haven.

_“When she no longer demonstrated the need to be protected, yes,”_ she said flatly. Shan’shala hummed, the sound of taut rigging vibrating. _“Or, when she needlessly brought harm to innocents. That would be enough.”_ He was not paying her any mind when she looked at him. _“As I would have done within that temple, should you not have interfered.”_

_“It was an act of providence,”_ he said, voice steely. _“Should you have completed that ritual, you likely would have done more harm to innocent lives than the knowledge you very nearly gave away.”_ Shan’shala flourished the sword, holding it before his eyes, tilting it this way and that. A rag replaced the whetstone and the scent of oil filled the air. He began running it along the blade. _“Intervening prevented that. If I have judged this version of you correctly, you will save far more lives.”_ He paused, letting his words sink in. _“However, on another note…spirits are mostly predictable—those with bodies…not so much. Too many thoughts and emotions conflicting with one another. You can never tell when they will say one thing and mean another and then act entirely unrecognisable the next moment.”_ He looked up at her then. _“You are different this time, I think. Therefore, I hope that I gave my blessing to the right person—clearly my other self had faith, I will follow my own lead. You carry my fate with you now, child.”_ Hope. He _hoped._ She surged to feet, fury darkening the skies above. A ward sprung up around Shan’shala against her emotions. She’d forgotten he could do that. 

“I could still be corrupted. I could bring destruction upon this world yet and you _tethered_ yourself to me? If I fail, you will be destroyed. How could you?” She hadn’t realised she’d slipped out of elven in her despair. Waving her hand, she dispelled the storm above and caught the one within her in a bottle, though it fought her when she corked it. She went to repeat herself in elven, but the spirit held up a hand.

_“I did my part. Now you must do yours. See to it that you do not squander it.”_ She melted slowly to her knees, staring into her hands and all their scars. _Cut from the same cloth._ Whatever that meant, she had a feeling it had to do with how he had been able to reach across the Veil in the temple. The blessing she had received from the other spirit had been nothing more than a simple spell that gave more strength to her Aegis— _go forth and protect with your shield_ in a literal sense. This one…tying his essence to her—it was a curse and she still did not understand what the terms entailed. Solas would know, but she wasn’t sure how she could go about asking him.

_“I asked for your guidance, not for you to…to make me the anchor of your life.”_ She pressed her fingers into her eyes, taking a long, shuddering breath. 

_“I do not think I can offer you the guidance you seek, child, but I would see that you keep your skills honed.”_ She peered up at him. He stood before her with his sword, placing his gnarled hands atop its pommel. _“I know that your Inquisition has skilled warriors, but I doubt they have any true Ena’sal’in’amelan like yourself in their ranks. Train here with me again, as we once did.”_ Taking her hand with one of his, he lifted her back to her feet, sweeping a finger over the half-missing one on her right hand. _“Let us prevent you from losing anymore parts of yourself.”_ She bowed at the waist, arms at her sides.

 _“Ma serannas, falon,”_ her voice quavered. _“I would be honoured.”_ When she straightened, Shan’shala was looking off across the seas.

 _“Next time you sleep, we will train. But for now, I believe someone else desires your attention,”_ he said.

 _“Solas,”_ she breathed at the same time that she heard his voice in her ears. 

_“Be well.”_ Protection bowed to her and Maordrid opened her eyes slowly to Solas gently shaking her awake. The bow and his cloak were already slung over his shoulders. 

“It is time we were on our way,” he said, speaking softly. She nodded, rubbing the back of her neck as she moved her body for the first time in several hours. Everything was tight and burning and felt like an entire thaig had collapsed on top of her. Her spirit hurt especially and it took all that she had not to pull him into her arms and tell him what he meant to her. Not now. Not yet. But she would. It would probably happen when they were both frustrated at one another, since things tended to come out then. And _void_ was she frustrated in more than one way. Sometimes she wasn't sure whether she wanted to punch him or kiss him.

Solas’ stomach growled, startling them both. 

“We do not have any food,” she muttered, grateful for the distraction. She pretended not to see his hands when he offered them, reaching out instead to retrieve Dirthamen’s buckler and getting to her feet alone. 

“We can forage on the way. Or hunt. I will be fine,” he said. “Are you recovered enough to shift?” Her well was a little over halfway now. In answer, she took form as a panther. When the black smoke cleared, Solas chuckled and crouched down before her, soft grey eyes wandering along her feline features in admiration. “Beautiful.” _Damn you, damn you, damn you._ He reached up and ran his fingers along her muzzle and over the ridge of her skull. _I should bite his hand off._ She chuffed a laugh and butted her head into his shoulder, knocking him on his bottom. In a puff of grey smoke, a black wolf replaced the elf. 

The shadows regarded one another in silence, then melted into the forest together.

  


————————————--------

  


~[Much earlier]~

  


Dhrui was practically crouched and ready to ready to spring like a hare when Solas and Maordrid left. Every creaking oak, every rasp of the grass as it shifted in a breeze—it made her twitchy with anticipation. She counted her heartbeats to keep track of how long they’d been gone, but she swore it kept getting faster the further it dragged on. It ended up being something ridiculous, like _way_ over a thousand. _Too bloody long!_

A branch snapped like a lightning strike and her ears perked up. That alone should have sent her sprinting the other direction because neither of the elves ever deliberately made that much noise. But her feet were rooted to the ground as if she’d accidentally cast in her surprise. She called her magic to her fingertips anyway, but again was frozen as her eyes were immediately drawn to something that stepped from the forest that nearly reached the treetops itself. It looked like an old diseased tree, save for the wrinkled hollows it had for eyes. Faint orbs of jaundiced light peered down at her. Then the stench hit her and she knew she was facing a demon. 

Dhrui turned and bolted, body suddenly feeling too light that it made her stumble trying to dash through the dark, even with her good vision. The tree demon didn’t do an impractical thing like screech or talk or attempt to sing like its brethren—it lumbered after her in a rush of swamp stench and whining branches. She tried to hinder its movements by running between denser trees and vines, but the creature tore right through them. She thought it might have been using nature magic to shift the forest around it, but she didn’t care to check. She tried not to use Fen’harel’s name in a bitten off curse when her foot caught in a burrow. It came out as _Fen’hial ver em!_ instead. _Juicy wolf take me._

Her hysterical laugh swiftly turned to a chirp of terror when a massive claw swiped her up from the ground around her hips and yanked her into the air. Branches and twigs scraped at her face and arms as it lifted her. She didn’t waste any time summoning her magic—she shot both her arms out and called the forest to aid her. Vines peeled away from trunks and snapped out, wrapping themselves around the demon’s other arm that was coming in to tear off her head. A groan of confusion came from the creature, its great spindly head turning slightly to look at the offending creepers now using its arm as a spool. With a fierce cry, she tossed her arm back and the vines ratcheted backward. The demon released her as the ropes yanked it off balance. Miraculously, she landed in the small river. The one time she wasn’t displeased with being tossed in freezing water. She swam frantically to the other side and spun this way and that trying to determine which way the camp was.

Firelight—upstream. 

She sprinted, breaths coming out in short bursts. Barrelling through the remaining forest to reach the camp, she was nearly annihilated by a fire glyph glowing between the ferns when she exploded from the trees. Yin yelped and quickly dispelled it. 

“ _Where have you been?”_ he shrieked, rushing over to help her to her feet. “Demons are coming out of the woods but there’s no rift. The mark is completely quiet.” Dhrui took in the camp and saw two smaller tree demons lying on the ground nearby as well as a few piles of Rage ashes. Behind her, the big one was still coming. She could feel the ground rumbling.

“Solas and Maordrid are in trouble. Venatori camp—that way. Big demon also,” she panted. Yin spun to Dorian and Frederic who were in the process of packing everything up and throwing most of it into the Professor’s cart. Shamun was yoked to it to make up for the heavier load.

“Look out!” Dorian shouted and immediately dropped the tent canvas he was carrying to throw a meteor of fire behind them. Yin tackled Dhrui to the ground only to roll back to his feet and begin his own assault on the demon that had finally reached them.

The three mages lashed out together in a coordinated assault. Dhrui utilised the abundance of roots, stone, and vines to slow its movement while Dorian attacked with flames since it seemed impervious to necromantic spells. Yin somehow kept them protected with barriers while weaving around the demon’s stomping legs, swinging at it with his spirit sword. He was the one to make the first crippling blow, nearly severing its foot from its thick ankle. It spurted something like sap and demon ichor from its wound as it toppled like timber. 

“Altogether!” Dorian shouted, focusing all of his fire on its face instead of its limbs. Dhrui’s roots shot from the ground and wrapped around its massive wrists and remaining ankle, tethering it to the earth while Yin ripped at it with the mark. There was a grotesque beauty to its throes of death. It looked like an ancient tree felled at last by termites and rot and wildfire, its limbs burning and charring. Patches of its rough barklike skin crumbling away as the verdurous magic of the anchor devoured it. The orbs in its eye sockets faded with its low, keening wail.

“Everything’s loaded!” Frederic called in the quiet following the battle. He trotted up to them with Dhrui’s staff in his hands, fair brows furrowed as he handed to her. “Where…is the Lady Moirdrid and Messere Solas?” Yin swore.

“How far off are they?” he asked her. 

“Less than a mile? I think,” she squeaked, abashed. Yin turned to Frederic, green eyes surveying the cargo and the animals. 

“All right. There’s no good way to do this. If there are Venatori in the woods, who knows how spread out they are. We just have to do this quick,” he said. “Frederic, you stay with the mounts. We’ll set traps in the area around that will explode if something crosses. If they go off it should give you enough time to run. Keep an eye out. We will be back. If we aren’t by dawn…then continue east. We’ll find you.” The Professor nodded nervously and returned to his cart where he removed an ordinary sword and leaned against one of the wheels, watching the forest with a pale expression. 

“Shouldn’t one of us stay with him?” Dorian asked as they set off into the woods. 

“There was red lyrium,” Dhrui said. 

“Which likely means lyrium abominations…if Maori and Solas couldn’t handle them together it’s best that we all go,” Yin sighed, using the anchor to light their way. “I knew this place felt off.”

“And we were just trying to stargaze.” Dhrui yanked on her braid, belatedly realising how very Maori-like the gesture was. Yin huffed a quiet laugh, shoving past a curtain of vines and holding it to the side for the two of them to pass through.

“Trying to play matchmaker again, sister?” 

“Oh, it’s probably the perfect foreplay for those two. Kill some things, get worked up, argue a bit…I’ll stop there. The idea of Solas bare arsed for any reason makes me want to don a Chantry sister’s robe and take a vow of chastity,” Dorian remarked. 

“And then I’ll have to swoop in and despoil you,” Yin purred and Dhrui gagged.

“Could we maybe focus on finding our friends?” They both raised their brows in surprise.

“ _Dhrui_ is asking _us_ to focus? Did a demon possess you out in these woods?” Yin exclaimed. She just kept her eyes forward and concentrated on trying to trace the path back. 

Fortunately, she was able to this time. The not so good part were the sounds of conflict coming from the area of the red glow. Yin took off at a run, throwing down an area barrier that covered them all. 

What they came upon was some kind of depression in the woods where lots of red lyrium was growing. There was no sign of Solas or Maordrid, but judging by the way that several lyrium beasts were attempting to scale a wall of ice on the other side of the gully clued her in that they may have been beyond it.

Yin and Dorian halted at the ledge just long enough to initiate the attack with a Devouring Veil that pulled most of them to a fixed point, followed by a Firestorm. Dorian cast a Horror spell on the Venatori in the area and a wall of fire to irritate the lyrium monsters. Dhrui focused on keeping them from climbing up the sides of the ravine with the aid of roots that lashed out like the tentacles of an ocean leviathan.

Without Maordrid and Solas to fill in their usual gaps, they were nearly overcome. If they hadn’t had the element of surprise beforehand, Dhrui wasn’t sure they would have had a chance. There were strange singing rogues in the group of enemies that kept trying to cut through her roots but kept getting caught like flies in a Fen’harel fly trap.

“Focus on those!” Yin shouted, indicating the singers. 

“It’s hard not to! Their voices are filling my head!” Dorian cried a bit frantically, hurling flames into the roots entrapping two of the creatures. A shout of pain interrupted her focus. It had sounded awfully familiar, but she couldn’t keep listening or else welcome the crooning song into her ears. The rage of battle was barely enough to keep it out.

“Dhrui, the archers! Look out for the mage!” Yin called, shooting a bolt of ice in the indicated direction. She grit her teeth and spun, raising her hand in a torque-ing motion that loosened a vine from a nearby tree. It undulated like a great serpent and snapped out at the nearby archers that screamed when it knocked them into the gully from their perches. That was the last trick she could manage with nature magic. It took too much willpower to keep up, unlike the other elemental schools. She resorted to her fire, taking care to avoid setting aflame the forest that had just aided them. 

“Dhrui if we cover you, can you go break down that wall? I think they’re on the other side!” She nodded and at her brother’s shouted _Now!_ launched herself over an arching of roots and slid down a steep embankment into the bowl. Above, Yin cast another barrier on her and the two men rained Stone Fists and flames around her, easily striking down the templars that attempted to charge her. She danced across the gully, throwing her own magic from her staff at the remaining enemies. Something felt very wrong about this place. The Veil was thin, that much had been obvious from the lip of the ravine, but there was something else. It became more apparent the closer she got to the wall and when she cast to break it down, it took much more magic than it should have. She noted that half of it seemed to be absorbed into the air while the rest went into the ice. When the barrier finally shattered, it was to see Solas and Maori hurrying up the path. It had been dreadfully silent on the other side, and now all she felt was a visceral relief.

Yin shouted at her from behind.

“They’re down here!” she called back, then turned to her friends now joining her. “You sodding morons, we need to get out of here! Demons attacked the camp and there’s no rift to tell where they’re coming from.”

“It is likely caused by the actions of the humans,” Solas said.

“Or the song,” Maori added. Dhrui looked at her funny until Yin shouted again. She jerked her head at them and the three hurried across the Venatori encampment and up through the mouth of the gully where Yin and Dorian were waiting with staff and sword.

“ _Cazzo_ , Solas, how are you still standing?” Yin exclaimed and Dhrui halted to follow his gaze where it was trained on his lower half. There was a wound in his thigh that had bled all down his leg where it was beginning to seep into his moccasin. 

“I will worry about it when we are safe. The adrenaline is enough for now,” he said, oddly detached. “We should leave this place immediately.” Dhrui looked at Maordrid who was also staring with a disturbingly blank look at his thigh. When the woman met her gaze, Dhrui tilted her head slightly, urging her to aid him— _c’mon, he’s all yours!—_ but Maori instead joined Yin and Dorian as they began to walk. Dhrui sighed and shoved her staff into one of Solas’ hands and ducked under his other arm to help him walk. At first, he seemed fine, walking upright as though too proud to admit he needed assistance.

“You can lean on me, you idjit,” she said. 

"You could do without the name calling, child," he said tersely. She immediately felt ashamed, but Solas did lean on her after, if not a bit awkwardly at first and then finally he found a more comfortable cadence. 

“The Veil feels strange here,” she blurted. It was the nerves talking. And he was good at soothing them, usually. But he looked like he needed a little comforting, judging by the hole in his leg. 

“Is it? I had not noticed,” he said. She looked up more out of surprise but couldn’t tell much by his expression. It was probably the last thing he was thinking about, to be fair to him.

“Sorry. Just…don’t pass out on me, _hahren_ ,” she mumbled. Solas remained quiet, eyes fixated on the green glow of the mark bobbing ahead. 

The trek back was relatively uneventful. They got lost twice, encountered a single demon in the dark that was swiftly dispatched, and then finally reached the river. It was deeper and the current was stronger in this part. Dorian and Yin helped Solas across while Dhrui held hands with Maordrid, using her staff as a guiding pole to keep them from tripping over boulders hiding in the riverbed. On the other side, Yin took a turn aiding Solas, offering several apologies to him for not having offered to help initially. 

“Your mark, Inquisitor,” she heard Solas start, sounding like he was beginning to fade. “How did you get it again?” Yin’s head turned in the dark, regarding the elf with consternation.

“How many fingers am I holding up, Solas?” he asked, unfolding three on his marked hand.

“Four. Although it is difficult to tell past magic in your palm.” Yin glanced over at Maori who had been silent since crossing the river. 

“He was shot with an arrow,” the woman intoned.

“You…didn’t stand too close to that red lyrium, did you? Solas seems a bit off,” Yin said.

“That’s just Solas,” Dorian said. Yin made to stop, deciding to try and patch his leg immediately but then decided against it when howls rose up in the forest behind them. “I hope Frederic didn’t lose any of the mounts,” Dorian worried, striding ahead with a magelight. At last they came upon the glyph-and-mine-ringed campsite. Frederic would have lopped Dorian’s head off with his sword if it hadn’t been for Yin reacting hastily with his own spirit blade, catching it mid-swing. Frederic backed off apologising profusely. He’d a gash on his cheek and the whites of his eyes were nearly as round as his pupils.

“A demon made it past while you were gone. Thank the Maker for the sword lessons I took back when I was a youth,” he explained, running a shaking hand along his other cheek. “I am so very glad to see you are all in one piece.”

“Relatively,” Solas remarked without tone. Frederic regarded him with unmasked distaste.

“We need to haul ass out of here. It’s too dark to do anything about the demons,” Yin said. “Solas, you should ride in the back of the cart. Maori will take the rear on Rasanor and Dhrui will take Alas’nir on the left side. Dorian, right. Frederic, behind with Maori where she can protect you and Solas with the Aegis if we’re attacked again.” The others agreed quietly and Yin walked Solas over to the cart where he helped him into the back. As Dhrui was calling Alas’nir over she didn’t fail to take notice of Frederic immediately approach Maori, stopping her with a hand at her arm. Her sharp ears picked up him asking after her in a voice softened by affection. What she didn’t expect were the words that came out of Maordrid’s mouth.

“Are we together?” Even Frederic was stunned into silence. Dhrui’s body had half-turned to them almost reflexively.

“I—uh—” Maordrid turned her head sharply to look at Dhrui who quickly averted her gaze to Alas’nir’s reins. The ancient elf spoke too lowly to Frederic for her to make out what next she said, but she saw the woman take his hand out of the corner of her eye. Dhrui was suitably confused by now. _Did I fucking miss something?_ She looked over at Solas, but he was too preoccupied with Yin. 

She chose to climb onto Alas’nir instead, wondering if she’d accidentally inhaled some red lyrium along the way. All of a sudden, Rasanor began huffing and stomping in distress as Maordrid attempted to climb into her saddle. The hart had never once misbehaved, and now he was fighting as though spooked. The hart knocked Maordrid to the ground with his rump, breaking free of her grip. Then he trumpeted angrily and dashed into the woods before anyone could even act. 

“June’s steel balls, we can’t go looking for him!” Yin cried as Frederic helped Maori back to her feet. “That hart is as good as dead if he runs into those demons.”

“Why’d he scare, Maori?” Dhrui asked, worried for Rasanor.

“How am I supposed to know?” she snapped, brushing herself off. She swore, lacing her hands on top of her head as she stared off into the woods where the Tirashan Swiftwind had disappeared. 

“We need to go,” Yin said. “I’m sorry about Ras. Maybe he’ll come back.” Maori growled and climbed into the back of the cart across from Solas just as the howls of demons rose in direction of the river.

Dhrui tried keeping an eye out for signs of poor Ras, but it quickly became difficult to concentrate on the marshy woods around them when Frederic began questioning Maori with less tact than usual about her uncharacteristic behaviour. He’d heeled his mare up behind the cart closer to Maordrid’s side since she was no longer able to take up that position. And now he was trying to work around asking her about her feelings. It couldn’t have been a more inappropriate time.

_Solas is literally right there in the cart with her, you imbeciles!_ she screamed in her head.

“So, Solas!” she said in a too high voice, cutting Maori off from her weirdly flirtatious thought. At least she was being somewhat quiet about it. Yin and Dorian didn’t seem to catch it, but she knew Solas had. 

“Yes?” he asked from inside.

“Did you two find anything of interest in that place? That you were able to notice?” Dhrui continued, feeling both Maordrid and Frederic’s irritation in the air. “You know, besides the Veil…that you said wasn’t…off…” She sent desperate signals to her brother to do his Inquisitor thing where he asked all the right questions.

“We did not have time to investigate before we were attacked,” Maordrid answered for him. “But since you mentioned it, I think we should go back. The humans were interested in the area.” Something bothered her about the way Maori spoke, but maybe she was just hypersensitive after everything that had happened. 

“Maybe when we can come back with more Inquisition soldiers,” Yin interjected. “Right now, I just want to make sure Solas doesn’t bleed out on us.” 

“Actually, if I may make a request, Inquisitor?” After some time spent not speaking, Dhrui noticed how strained Solas’ voice was. She sensed the stress of the group shoot into the air like an arrow released from a strongbow.

“Of course, my friend,” Yin said.

“I would like to stop soon. To rest,” Solas added a bit belatedly. Ahead, her brother’s shoulders tensed into a line, then sagged.

“We should really keep going, at least just a little farther—”

“Inquisitor, I really must insist.” The urgency in his voice made Yin turn a little in his saddle, just as Dhrui’s gaze was pulled to the bed of the covered wagon. She could barely see Solas through the planks, but he was leaning to the side clutching his leg. Maordrid was just staring. _What has gotten into you, asha?_ Dhrui immediately swung her leg over the saddle and hopped off, ordering Alas’nir to keep walking as she hurried over and jumped into the back of the wagon with Solas. He looked at her and with her sharp eyesight she could see the sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Yin, it’s serious,” she called up to him. 

“Yes. We should stop,” Maori added, ignoring Dhrui’s glare.

“All right, keep an eye out for a flat spot. We’ll set up camp. Wards and a watch,” Yin relented. She undid her waterskin and offered it to him. He was slow to take it, as though not sure what to do, but then brought it to his lips and drank. Digging around in the back of the cart, she found a roll of bandages and dressing in Yin’s pack that she immediately set to applying. Solas tried to help, but his fingers seemed unable to hold anything tight enough, so she smacked his hands away and finished up alone.

“I see you have some markings for Dirthamen,” he suddenly said, pointing weakly at the design of raven’s wings spanning from her thumb to her smallest finger. “He is a wise and rewarding god. Although you should have put them on your face instead of…Mythal’s and…are those bits of Elgar’nan’s?” Her brows pinched together as she sat back on her haunches, staring at him warily. Maori was back to talking with Frederic again. It was a strange topic to broach, but maybe his brain really wasn’t getting enough blood and he was just saying what came to mind. Or maybe he just needed to be distracted from Maordrid’s sudden cruelty.

“It is Mythal with a flower of flame to symbolise Sylaise’ fire in her branches. The thicker lines in the flower are for Elgar’nan,” she said. 

“The wings of Fear and Deceit would have better complimented your cheekbones. A beak down the curve of your nose.” Solas raised a hand and had she not leaned away, he would have touched her face. She didn’t like the dark colour in his voice. 

“You can tell me all about the things the Dalish apparently have wrong, but don’t you dare disparage my _vallaslin_. They're _mine_ ,” she said heatedly. “I’ve already had to deal with other clan mates getting mad about it. A-Anyway, why are you even talking about this? You never cared before.” A twitch rippled across his features and a blank look stole over his eyes.

“I…I’m not sure,” he said, sounding more himself. He rubbed his forehead, muttering something in elven. She was very relieved when Yin finally called the stop. 

Everyone seemed to hold their breaths to listen to the forest before moving anything from Frederic’s wagon. If the demons were still out there, they were being quiet. Or maybe they were listening back. She knew that was wishful thinking, since demons seemed to be drawn to the mark like hounds on a blood trail. Although, she did notice that the air seemed clearer where they were now. The marsh smelled more like wet moss and stagnant water, whereas looking back she recalled a sort of funk hanging around the last camp. It had smelled like sweet death and felt like summer, though it was supposed to be nearing the winter season.

Camp was erected slower this time around. Exhaustion had caught up while the blood rush had trickled off during the ride. Even Yin was looking like he was rethinking setting a watch. Dorian and Solas eventually convinced him that triple wards would be better than any one of their tired eyes attempting to keep surveillance.

“Dhrui! Come give me a hand?” Dorian called to her while he was unpacking the tent components for him and Yin. She meandered over, rubbing nervously at her fingers. Yin was busy checking and rechecking the wards and Solas was making a valiant attempt to go with him but gave up when his leg buckled and he nearly fell from the cart. Dhrui stopped, waiting for Maordrid to _go and bloody help him_ but she was preoccupied with something in her pack, having never even looked up. She nearly detoured to help Solas, but he was already sitting again with a scowl on his face. Dhrui joined Dorian in securing the wooden stakes, occasionally stealing glances across the camp. Dorian cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

“Has…Maordrid been acting a tad off? I mean besides the hart running off,” Dorian whispered, pretending to fiddle with a knot in a rope as he stood with her.

“I thought I was beginning to learn her tells…but I guess I’m not even close,” she admitted with frustration. 

“She’s been avoiding Solas,” Dorian observed. “You’d think she’d be all over him with that wound in his leg. But I know she doesn’t heal, so maybe she’s embarrassed? Hm. Or a lover’s spat in the woods?” Dhrui shook her head, thinking about the interactions with Frederic. As if she… _returned_ his feelings. She knew Orlesians had a reputation for professing love after only laying eyes upon someone, but Maordrid was _not_ a perfume-headed noblewoman. 

“But she’s never been one to let her emotions get in the way of helping someone. And Solas isn’t just _anyone_ ,” she whispered. Dorian tied the poles together and gave her one end of the canvas, using the movement to mask his own quick glance at the goings-on in camp. His eyebrows drew down sharply—following his look, she saw Maordrid dabbing at Frederic’s wound with a cloth. There were still traces of confusion in the Orlesian’s face, but besides that he seemed positively thrilled. Solas was watching, but his face was distressingly blank again. Dhrui felt like her stomach was going to project itself across the camp at them. She almost wanted it to.

“Even though sometimes I am convinced they both sprung fully formed from the Fade, they are still people--at least I think. And people…don’t always do things we understand,” Dorian said, tearing his eyes away and giving his head a minute shake. “ _Kaffas_ , that was odd. I cannot get that image out of my head now. I almost feel bad for Solas.” He sighed, stooping to hammer the tent’s peg into the ground. “I think I am going to stay out of this one. Feel free to keep meddling, but if you do, don’t forget to share all the nasty tidbits with me.” The two of them were just finishing up with the tent when the emerald light of the mark alerted them to Yin’s return. 

“Wards are good. I thought to scout out the area around us just to see if there were any rifts…but it seems clear,” he said, adding a couple dimmer magelights to the area while dousing the brights. “No campfire tonight. We’ll set out early in the morning and head to the nearest town, get our heads reset there, then go to Val Royeaux.” When everyone had verbalised their agreement, Yin turned his attentions to Solas who was working his way around the cart with a white-knuckled grip around Dhrui’s staff. “Solas, let’s sit you down and take care of that.” The elf peered up at him, slightly glowing eyes flickering briefly over to Maordrid and back to Yin.

“I’ll do it myself,” he said. Yin seemed taken off guard by his declination but acquiesced though he did attempt to help his friend over to the first tent. 

“Are you sure? You’ve…you seem to have lost a good deal of blood, _lethallan_ ,” Yin said as Solas opened the flap. 

“My healing should be sufficient enough, Inquisitor. Good night.” And then he was gone. Yin stared after him, rubbing the back of his head before turning to the rest of them and tossing his hand in a resignation. “Well, since Dhrui’s tent burned down, that leaves us with either packing three to one or someone’s sleeping under the stars.”

“I’ll sleep next to Shamun,” Dhrui quickly volunteered. Yin tossed her a bedroll, then looked at the others.

“Anything else?” he asked with a sigh. Maori shook her head and walked over to the tent she shared with Solas, vanishing into it without a word. Frederic looked like he’d been slapped in the face. _I feel you, prof,_ Dhrui thought, tossing her bedding down and wrapping her arms around the nugalope’s big nose in greeting. He snuffed unhappily.

“I know, it’s been a bad night, _falon,_ ” she told him as he settled down with her. She picked out Yin’s footsteps coming up and turned her head to look at him. 

“You know you are welcome to squeeze in next to me. There’s enough room,” Yin said, kneeling to help her get situated. 

“No thanks, you fart in your sleep,” she said. “I don’t know how Dorian deals.”

“He would kill me in my sleep if I’d kept that up,” Yin laughed, then fell into uneasy silence. When she was wrapped in her cloak and bedroll she looked back at her brother.

“You’re all worried about Solas, aren’t you?” 

“Did you find out if something happened between them? He only ever uses my title if I piss him off or he’s having a really bad day,” Yin said.

“Does getting shot in the leg not count as a bad day?” she mused. 

“He’s taken a sword slash or two since I’ve known him and he never turned down aid then. I’m just wondering if maybe something happened with Maordrid,” he said. Dhrui decided not to mention what had been going on behind his back.

“It’s probably just blood loss, Yin. You know how that makes people act.” She said it partially to comfort herself. He hummed agreement, but she could see his mind wheels still spinning. She patted his knee. “Get some rest, you ox.”

“I’m going to leave those two lights on,” he said, getting to his feet. Dhrui nodded and leaned back against her nugalope, crossing her arms. That was her brother asking to keep an eye out, even with the wards in place.

Not that she was complaining. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.

———————————— 

  


Yin couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched or followed. It was worse that Solas had beseeched them to stop. The air around the group as a whole was wound up like a spring, which was doing no favours for his own nerves. He wished he had brought Cassandra or even Cole along instead of sending them off across the bottom half of the country. Cassandra was excellent at bringing order in chaos and Cole would be able to give him a better idea of what was going on with the demons.

When Dorian finally pulled him into their tent, he was made to reflect on what good had happened. They’d found Maori and Solas alive, which had been his primary concern. He hadn’t failed to notice his friends’ strange behaviour, but then again both of them had been acting on and off weird since that night after they’d swapped stories in the desert. Toward one another, at least. Maori had still been her usual self during the times that he sparred with her and Solas wasn’t much different either.

“Amatus, you are beginning to heat up the entire tent with your brain activity.” Yin snapped out of his thoughts and shifted his head to peer at his lover lying beside him in the dark. 

“I was just pondering the reasons why people decided cutting the heads off flowers to give to their lovers was romantic,” he said. Dorian loved morbid whimsy. He snorted beside him.

“It was probably a trend started by a necromancer. I was going to grow some roses out of the skull of one of our enemies to give to you for Satinalia, but now I don’t think I will.” Dorian peeked an eye open at him. “The night’s tidings have yet to quiet in your mind.”

“I can’t get past what was going on in those woods. The Venatori were out there…doing _what?_ I didn’t see anything and it’s bothering me. The demons coming from nowhere, the size of some of that lyrium…and even the feel of the Veil itself was…”

“Hungry?” Dorian supplied.

“Yes, exactly. The red lyrium I don’t understand, since it seems to grow wherever, but the amount of Venatori made no sense. Were they searching for something? Was there a ruin we just didn’t see?” He shoved a hand into his beard, itching around in thought. 

“Those are all excellent questions that I do not have the answer to!” Dorian said. “Although, I must say the only reason I would want to go back is if we didn’t wipe out the rest of those rats calling themselves Tevinter. And perhaps destroy the growth of lyrium, but I don’t care to go crawling into a hole where the Veil feels like it wants to eat me alive.”

“Yes, but that’s what _I_ do.” _Who knew I’d actually start to sort of enjoy playing Inquisitor, doing all this protecting and such._ “You know you aren’t obligated to come with me everywhere. In fact, you’re free to leave the Inquisition at any time.”

“Come now, if I left there would _be_ no Inquisition.” A grin was shared between them. “Let us put the subject on coals until the morning. I honestly cannot keep my eyes open any longer.” Dorian rolled over onto his side away from him, leaving Yin staring up at the canvas and the shadows cast across it from the magelights. 

His mind at least was finally slowing down from its run. Talking to Dorian always helped. Sometimes he missed the nights he and Solas had shared a tent and spoke almost endlessly about all sorts of things. From responsibility to the wonders of wandering the world, there wasn’t a subject that Solas didn’t have interesting input for. They’d become fast friends. He made a note to tent up with his friend again. 

Yin was beginning to drift, listening to Dorian’s own slow, measured breaths beside him. He envied how easily the man could fall asleep. _Gods, and Solas can practically do it on command._ He remembered watching the elf doze—on his feet—against a log in the Hinterlands once on their way back from Val Royeaux the first time. Sera had made a game of carefully stacking leaves on top of his head to see how many she could get to stay until it woke him up.

_Twenty. Twenty leaves_ was her record. 

His own eyes slipped shut, a lazy grin on his lips. He was literally beginning to cross into the Fade when his ears twitched, detecting a sound that wasn’t Dorian breathing or shifting in his sleep. Footsteps across the camp. Dhrui probably getting up to relieve herself. But no, why would they come this way?

He reluctantly cracked his lids open— _Creators, they are so heavy—_ and was somewhat startled when he realised Dhrui had put out the magelights. No, wait. What was that? His breath hitched at the sound of fingers sliding on canvas. He blinked, eyes readjusting and he saw the tent flap widening. Yin shook his left hand free of the blankets to use the mark for light.

"Dhrui?"

He froze—and so did Solas. They stared at each other. Yin opened his mouth to give voice to question—nearly ten were trying to climb their way off his tongue—but then suddenly Solas lunged into the tent quiet as a shadow. A flash of silver made him realise that he was armed. Solas landed on top of him before his body could react and plunged the knife into his right breast below his clavicle. Yin cried out in pained shock and reeled his left fist back, driving it into Solas’ jaw instinctually, but not before the man pulled the dagger free from his chest. Finally, Dorian woke up and started cursing. Magic flooded the tent as Dorian went to cast, but suddenly it was dispelled from the air. Solas jumped on him again, slashing at the mark on his hand but missed and lacerated his forearm. 

“Solas, what the fuck!” Dorian shouted, punching out at the elf’s head with magic surrounding his fist. The other mage caught it in his own hand mid-swing and Dorian gave a horrifying cry and sagged to the blankets. “My magic—what have you _done_?” he rasped. Yin wheezed, trying to scramble up, and immediately stopped again when the dagger bit into the bicep of his left arm, pinning it to the ground. He screamed in agony, the mark flaring with his distress. 

_“That magic does not belong to you!”_ Solas hissed in elven, gripping his left hand. Upon contact, something shifted deep within him. Suddenly it felt like someone had poked a hole in his spirit and the magic was draining from it. Dorian finally recovered and threw himself at Solas before he could reclaim the knife. The two men fell to the ground grappling. Yin pulled it free of his arm and clapped his right hand against his chest wound, trying to feed it a little healing but his magic slipped out of reach. Desperately, he cried out for Maori or Dhrui. Dorian was still struggling with Solas. His heart was beating too fast. Blood was leaving him. His last fading thought was of pain and betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little by little we see into Maordrid's background... o.O  
> Also, Dirthamen really interests me. I feel like he might have actually been kinda cool dude at one point and then went batshit crazy. We will probably see more of him in the future of this fic *wink wink*
> 
> Translations:  
> Cazzo - 'f**k' in Italian (I'm just going to throw in Italian and Spanish since no one really knows wtf Bioware intended for the Antivan language. Apologies to native speakers lol)
> 
> Fen'harel fly trap= totally a venus fly trap XD
> 
> side note:  
> So, I need to take a break to catch up on editing/writing the future stuff. I know I said I would post every other day, but I also really like being able to give you all huge chapters like these.  
> I'm not sorry about the cliffhanger, however.  
> Bear with me!
> 
>  
> 
> Edit 6/21/2019:  
> Guys, I fucked up. I had to retcon some names (Aki+Lahtaras are now Shiveren and Inaean)  
> I never thought I'd do that, but it was for the best. I AM SO SORRY.


	78. di Veleno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **[Of Poison]**  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first and last time I'll put any warnings of attempted sexual violence since this fic has already been rated "explicit" and has all the necessary tags...so yeah, consider yourselves warned.

  


Dhrui was half-awake when a shadow emerged from the tent where Solas and Maori were sleeping. Her sluggish brain wondered why it was so dark in the camp. Someone had put out the magelights. 

The shadow—Solas?—moved across the camp silently toward the woods nearer to Yin and Dorian’s tent. She came aware of Maordrid coming out next, making her way in the direction Solas had gone. 

She was almost content to leave them alone—maybe they were finally going to talk—until Solas veered toward Yin’s tent and she saw the knife. Dhrui jumped to her feet just as he disappeared inside. A shout followed soon after and she was running. But then Maordrid appeared before her with a sword and Dhrui skidded to a stop, confused.

“Maori?” The woman swung and all she could do was go into survival mode as the warrior turned on her. There was no point trying to fight a woman who was a weapon herself, so she concentrated on keeping it away from her with a barrier and the occasional rock or stick thrown beneath Maordrid’s feet.

“Maker, what is happening?” Frederic shouted but Dhrui didn’t answer as she stepped to the side to avoid a thrust at her neck and spun in toward Maordrid, throwing an elbow into her face as she went.

“Sorry!” she cried when the woman growled and stumbled back, but then ducked again as the sword sang above her head. She was so glad that they had been training near constantly, otherwise she was sure she would’ve been skewered on first move. When she faced Maori again, the woman threw a cloud of dust and dirt into her eyes. Dhrui yelped and stumbled backward, tripping on one of the stones she’d thrown moments beforehand. Knowing she’d won the fight, Maordrid crossed the space slowly, sword pointed down at her. A stasis field sprung up around her and suddenly her mana began to drain away like syrup. She tried to grasp at her magic, to keep it within but it was like trying to catch sand in the wind.

_“I want you to strike me down if I ever go rogue,” Maori said, gripping her hand and holding the knife to her own throat. Dhrui tried to draw back, but Maori held her firm with surprising strength. “Do not hesitate. Because it is likely that I will not.”_

_“I don’t know if I could,” she told her. Maordrid twisted the knife from her hand, gripping the flat of it in a way that didn’t cut her and held it against Dhrui’s throat instead. She refrained from swallowing._

_“I am going to show you how to kill me. Both with a weapon and magic.” The words hit her like a stone in the chest. She dropped her eyes. “And you will do it. That is what you wanted, becoming my apprentice, no?”_

_“But how will I know if you’ve turned? What if it isn’t obvious?” she asked._

 _“If I ever bring harm to any of you. It is fairly simple and I imagine it will be_ quite _obvious,” Maori replied. “Are you ready?”_

Even if she could move, Dhrui wasn’t ready. Not now, and probably not ever.

Maordrid stopped in her advance abruptly and turned her head to look over in the dark where Solas had gone. For some reason, the stasis disappeared and she was free.

_“Who knows, you may not even need to use my weaknesses against me. I might be distracted—take a knife and cut my throat or slip it between my ribs. That works just as well,” Maori said with a grin._

_“What, no need for a magical blade or thirteen ordained elven priests?” Dhrui half-joked. Maordrid looked down at herself._

_“Not that I am aware of. I’ve never died, so…”_

_Damn you, Maordrid_ , Dhrui thought as she took to her feet, drawing her attention again. Maordrid swung the sword from inside to outside, but Dhrui stepped in, raising her right wrist and parrying from the outside of Maordrid’s forearm and pushing back across Maori’s body. She continued the parry with her left hand, causing the sword to dip into the dirt. When it hit the ground, Dhrui struck out with her right fist at Maordrid’s face while twisting her left hand around her sword wrist. Maori staggered from the blow to her face, but Dhrui wasn’t done. Fingers closing around the crossguard of the sword, she pulled against Maori and chopped down on her arm, relieving her of the weapon.

She spun the sword in her grip and drove it all the way through her friend’s chest until she was looking over the other woman’s shoulder.

Maori didn’t speak or make even a sound. Dhrui choked out a sob and released the blade.

“Dhrui!” she heard her brother cry and she broke away toward his voice, leaving Maordrid alone. 

The tent had collapsed on one side, but she could see movement from underneath as a struggle took place. There was a flash of light and then suddenly Solas was stumbling out with blood on his hands and face. He looked at her and raised a glowing hand, preparing a spell against her. Dorian burst from the tent a second later and swung the knife Solas had had earlier, effectively distracting the elf from completing his spell. The blade sliced at his back but Solas dodged to the side so that he was facing them both.

“Fucking Fen’harel!” Dorian snarled, shaking the blade at him. “I was willing to give you a chance, for Yin and Maori’s sake! The _void_ has gotten into you?” 

“Step aside, mortal. You know not what you stand between!” Solas said in a low, dark voice. Dorian looked like he was about to attack again, but froze when a pale red light bloomed from the forest to the north between the trees, engulfing them like a tidal wave and then fading again. Solas’ head snapped in the direction it had come and took off running into the forest. Dorian looked about to give chase, but Dhrui stopped him when she glanced back at Maori’s body on the ground. Dorian froze with an expression of horror that changed to confusion as her corpse glowed faintly and then began crumbling away as they had seen countless demons do in the past. Dhrui gasped with a sense of relief and understanding. 

“Demons,” she said, but Dorian didn’t answer. He was pulling the tent apart like an enraged bear. When the canvas came free, they saw Yin passed out in a pool of blood amidst the blankets. Dhrui screamed and rushed to her brother’s side. She fed what she had left of her magic into sealing the wound in his chest. The blood slowed a little. “Dorian, get a bandage. Something occlusive. And grab wound sap,” she told him, placing her own hand over the hole. Yin jerked and his eyes fluttered open a little. “Stay with me,” she begged. He nodded weakly and kept his eyes trained on her but didn’t speak.

“Will this do?” Dorian returned with the little bottle of sap and several waxed sheets of cotton from the cart. She snatched the bottle from him and lined a square of cotton on three sides before placing it carefully over the wound. Almost immediately, Yin’s breathing levelled out as the dressing regulated the air escaping his chest cavity.

“We need to get him to a healer,” Dhrui said. “My magic—”

“Is gone too?” Dorian cursed up a storm. “Frederic, how far is the city of Val Foret?” The Professor came running and let out a small gasp when he saw Yin.

“I-It’s reachable…a few hours southeast? One of those harts might be able to cut it in half—”

“Good enough. Yin, can you move? I’m afraid I can’t lift you over my shoulders,” Dorian said, brushing a hand along his cheek. 

“Help...up,” he rasped. Dhrui and Dorian wasted no time moving him to a sitting position and then walking him up to a stand. “Solas…?”

“Demons,” Dhrui said but she wasn’t sure Yin heard as he suddenly became a dead weight in their arms. Dhrui whistled Narcissus over. The hart knelt down helpfully, allowing them to put Yin in the saddle.

“Can he hold us both?” Dorian asked, holding onto his lover. Dhrui pushed her intentions to Narcissus through the stray bit of magic she had left. The hart dipped his head.

“Yes, but you will have to give him rest,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go?”

“I’m more familiar with the area,” Dorian said, but she was pretty sure he just didn’t want to be apart from her brother. She stepped away from Narcissus as Dorian climbed up and sat in front of Yin who slumped against his back. 

“Where should we meet?” she asked.

“Val Royeaux,” Frederic chimed in. “We will wait there at my little villa and visit the Sun Gates every morning until you arrive.”

“Splendid. Be safe,” Dorian said. Dhrui reached up and squeezed her brother’s knee and then Dorian snapped Narcissus’ reins. The hart bounded into the forest, leaving the remaining two alone.

“What we saw…” Frederic started hesitantly. Dhrui turned to him. 

“They weren’t real,” she said. “The whole time…they tricked us, whatever they were.” Frederic scratched his head in the dark.

“I had thought there was something rather off,” he said. “Maker’s breath, what a night. I pray they will find him help.”

“Let’s get going. This place is awful,” Dhrui said, feeling quite alone.

“As you wish.” 

They picked up what they could salvage and left just as the skies began to lighten with the tellings of dawn.

————————————— 

  


  


“Remind me why you asked me up here, Inquisitor?” Leliana’s sing-song voice broke through his thoughts as he paced the balcony. The red-haired Spymaster leaned nonchalantly against one of the entryways, hands folded daintily before her. A small smile played on her delicate rosebud lips. 

“If I tell you, promise you won’t stick a knife between my ribs?” he asked, hardly pausing. He knew he looked like a flustered chicken trapped within a coup while a particularly juicy grub lay just out of reach. And that was exactly how he felt.

“I think that is more your sister’s job,” Leliana smirked. 

“Good enough. All right, so…we both come from fairly romantic countries, no?” he started with. “In fact, if Orlais and Antiva were people, they’d be rivalrous lovers. Pretending to hate one another in public only to fall passionately into the sheets behind doors.” Leliana giggled.

“Apt imagery. Although I must say that in my experience, Antivans do it better,” she said. Yin gasped in a scandalised manner and stopped in his footsteps.

“That is sacrilege, my dear Spymaster!”

“You have not met my friend Zevran. He puts all Orlesian poets and romantics to shame,” she said. “Although you still have not told me why you called me up here.”

“Oh, don’t play coy. You know everything.”

“I do, but I enjoy hearing you talk. You remind me of Zev.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered.” Leliana just offered him a secretive smile. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop wasting your time. I…was hoping for…Gods, this actually sounds horrible now that I think about it.” Yin briefly considered fleeing his own quarters, then peered over at Leliana who was now openly grinning. “Dorian.” The Orlesian bard snickered again.

“I wondered when you were going to ask,” she said. He blinked owlishly. 

“Don’t tell me there’s a betting pool going,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at her. 

“There most definitely is. Be comforted that I did not participate in this particular one. It would not be fair to the others,” she said smugly. Yin considered asking her what the bet was on and who was involved, but he was certain it was probably the same crowd who’d all bet on Maordrid—Dorian likely included.

“So…do you know anything about Dorian?” he hedged, knowing it was low to play this way. “Nothing dirty. Maybe his favourite wine or food? Should I attempt to court him like an Orlesian or…go about it Antivan style?”

“I’m afraid that the vetting process does not go _that_ deeply into personal matters,” Leliana said. Yin gave her a look. “Do not quote me on that.” 

“Then you do know!” Leliana hummed and peered at the back of her nails that matched Josephine’s. _Those two are damn adorable. And together they could probably bring a nation to its knees with just the right words._

“I’m afraid I am not familiar with Tevinter courting customs,” she said innocent as the sky above. Yin didn’t dare question her further. She scared him too much to try. “Perhaps you should ask Varric. He had a friend from Tevinter.” 

“I’m not getting anything out of you, am I? You like to watch me squirm.” Her eyes twinkled but she said nothing, pushing away from the wall and walking back toward the stairs. Yin followed, still plotting. “Uh-huh, I am beginning to think that that is the main reason you all made me Inquisitor,” he said as they descended the tower. 

“That is definitely the _only_ reason.” Yin smiled knowing she was as well. 

At the bottom, Leliana paused beside him before she went off to do her own thing.

“You know, Inquisitor, if you would like to keep your intimate matters under wraps, you need only ask,” she said, lips barely moving. He was flattered that she would look after him but he shook his head.

“Let them speculate. Mythal knows the entire country already sees me as a raving lunatic. What’s one more rumour?” he said, then sighed. “ _Ma serannas_ , Leli. It means a lot.”

“Of course, my friend. I will see you later.” He watched her until she disappeared into Josephine’s office. But now he was back where he’d started. Who could he even go to for advice? Dhrui was way out of the question—she’d just tell him to jump Dorian in a dark corner. Iron Bull and Sera would likely suggest something along the same lines and he just…wanted something better. They had already slept together and spoken about pursuing a relationship but he felt like he needed to show Dorian that he meant it. He wanted to go a more careful route. He almost considered going to Maordrid, but that would just be awkward. Varric would be just as bad even though he wrote fantastic romance novels—he just didn’t come across as particularly romantic himself. Maybe Leliana was right to deny him finer details. That also scratched Cole off the list. His eyes absently roamed the hall. _Not Vivienne either. That icy mask hasn’t melted since I propositioned her._

He was chewing his fingernail and staring from afar at the fireplace where Varric usually sat when the door of the rotunda opened to admit Solas. His ears perked up. _Perfect, he has an answer for everything!_ He recalled the story Solas had dreamily told him about the Matchmaker spirit that had guided young girls to gentle young men in a memory he’d seen in the Fade. There was a hidden romantic in Solas that no one was even aware of.

Yin flew at him straight as an arrow. Solas took notice of him almost immediately, looking up from the paper in his hand and slowing in his steps. 

“Hello,” the Fadewalker greeted warily. 

“I need your expertise, _lethallan,”_ Yin whispered conspiratorially. Solas raised a brow but didn’t lower the paper in his hand. “Somewhere else? Unless you’ve something pressing to attend…”

“I was only returning my report on the keystones we found to Dagna. It should only take a moment, if you are willing,” Solas said. 

“One does not simply take a _moment_ with Dagna,” Yin said. Solas did his funny chuckle snort and then gestured toward the door leading to the War Room. “Also, if you wait, I’d be curious to visit her as well. The brain power between the two of you is probably more than everyone in Skyhold and half of Ferelden combined. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if it was more than that.” Solas chuckled warmly as they descended the steps into the basement side by side.

“You flatter me, Yin,” he said, following him into the little library. “Yet this need for secrecy is mildly concerning. Is this a sensitive matter?” Yin shuffled his feet, disturbing some of the dust as he became keenly aware of just how ridiculous he was behaving. _I pulled him away from an important task to ask him how best to court a Tevinter man that he probably doesn’t give two shits about._

“Ah…maybe I didn’t think this out so well,” he hesitated, rubbing the wrist of his marked hand. Solas watched the motion. 

“Is it bothering you again? I don’t see why that would warrant secr—”

“I need your advice. You’re my best friend and…I honestly don’t know who else to go to,” Yin blurted. Solas’ cheeks flushed a bit and he cleared his throat delicately.

“My knowledge is at your dispense.” He twisted his hands together, eyeing his friend. Solas was way too intense, even when he wasn’t trying to be. One day, he’d convince the man to join them at the tavern to see him unwind. Taking one or two sips off of a flask in the field hardly counted.

“I’m finding myself at a bit of a loss with…uh…heartfelt matters?” Solas didn’t even blink.

“You have decided to pursue a romantic interest?” Solas took a step back to lean against the opposite bookshelf, crossing his arms. It suddenly felt like they were clan mates even though Solas was the furthest thing from Dalish. There was something soft about his face that made him feel a bit more at ease.

“I’ve always jumped headfirst into these things,” Yin continued, looking to the ground. “It’s never been more than physical for me. Truth be told, I have _no_ idea how to be meaningful in a relationship…or how to maintain one.” Solas’ eyes lifted to the books behind him and a mysterious sort of thoughtfulness settled along his eyes and lips.

“Difficult to believe. You seem to form good relationships with everyone you meet.” Yin laughed nervously.

“ _Platonic_ relationships.” Solas quirked a dubious brow and it definitely reminded him of Keeper Istii’s _I’m not an idiot, da’len_ face. “Gah, okay—with _options_. But not anymore! How…how would one court in the ancient times? Have you seen anything in the Fade?” Usually Solas loved answering those types of questions, but suddenly he looked concerned, though not for _him._

“I fail to see why Elvhen customs would matter to anyone inside the Inquisition,” he said and now Solas was the one fiddling with the end of his sleeve, avoiding his gaze smoothly. “The only person that _may_ appreciate it—that is, if she knows of them—would be Maordrid…” Solas cut his gaze up only a fraction. Yin blanched, realising he’d _completely_ misunderstood. _Is he…? Oh fuck, I asked the wrong question. He’s going to kill me in my sleep._

Yin’s laugh came out a little squeaky.

“Maori? No! I’m talking about Dorian!” he added quickly. Solas immediately assumed his I Am Untouchable face and posture, but Yin had already seen through him. 

“Ah. Then that should be even less applicable.” Yin blinked.

“Why?” Solas gave him a look that made him feel dumb. “Tevinter, I know. But…it means something to me. And maybe it will mean something to him? I think that’s how it works.” Solas’ face softened slightly.

“Forgive me, that was insensitive,” he said, shoulders a little stiff.

“Yeah, you can be that way, but you’re a loveable ass with a lot of untapped knowledge.” That earned a small smile from the older elf. “So…what has the Fade taught you?” Solas blushed and ran a hand along his head.

“There was no single way of courting in the time of Elvhenan. As some people prefer receiving roses and composing sonnets for their loves, there were just as many that might prefer duelling to prove one’s strength in battle. The fiercer the duel, the more it might be perceived as a direct translation of someone’s passion in love. That is to give two of many examples.” 

“I think we do enough fighting already outside of these walls, although I do like the idea,” Yin said.

“Dorian does not strike me as a romantic type anyhow,” Solas hummed. Yin laughed and shook his head. “He specialises in Necromancy and he can be rather morbid…so maybe the _daurnatha’vhenan?_ ”

“Er…viper heart?” Solas nodded. 

“Yes, although this takes the participation of both people. The courter would approach their interest and ask them what type of poison they would use to kill you if you were enemies. They would choose one and you would concoct it. Then, one of two things could happen— _you_ take it, and if you survive, then that ‘proves’ that your love is strong enough to withstand the symbolic poison of their heart.” 

“That is incredibly romantic,” Yin sighed, his inner Antivan swooning. Solas snorted, shaking his head.

“Yes, I thought you might like that. Although as Inquisitor, you may want to take the second option and avoid possibly killing yourself.”

“Oh, good point. What’s the second?” Solas smirked.

“It is a more drawn out process than the first. Together, you would pick a potent poison. Once chosen, your interest would have the task of gathering the ingredients for you to prepare. After, you would split the dose between yourselves and over the course of a century you would each take it in small doses. Surviving and building immunity to it was symbolic that you can overcome suffering together.” Yin clapped his hands together excitedly. Even Solas looked slightly pleased with himself. 

“Yes! That one seems to be a better fit. With the century exception,” Yin side eyed him with a grin beneath his beard. “Knew I could count on you.” 

“I would ask that you do not tell anyone you got the idea from me, if you are asked,” Solas said, tucking his arms behind his back. “The last thing I want is the reputation for being the crazy apostate that encouraged the Inquisitor to poison himself.” Yin broke out in a hearty laugh that echoed through the chamber. Solas managed to keep a straight face in an attempt to appear serious, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make up something clever,” he said. “Thank you, Solas. I’ll have to get a recipe for those little Orlesian cakes you like.”

“After this conversation, I might be wary of confectioneries coming from you, knowing that they may contain poison,” he joked as Yin turned to leave the alcove. He laughed again, glancing over his shoulder at him. 

“How else would prove my love for you, _lethallan_? I’d happily poison myself for our friendship.” His next step faltered when he felt the air suddenly thicken with static that he recognised as storm magic. It was coming from behind—

A shock coursed through his entire body so strongly that his heart palpitated painfully. He stumbled and braced himself on one of the stone pillars, vision swimming with shimmering mirages. 

“You are already dying from one poison.” Solas’ voice was dark, lacking all previous warmth. A hand pressed between his shoulderblades and another shock was delivered. He collapsed to the ground, convulsing and screaming in agony through cooking vocal chords. “You will not live to see old age with Dorian or any of your friends.” _No. Please, no, I want to live. I want love and family and happiness!_

“Yin!” someone called distantly and he thought it might be coming from the main hall. He tried to cry out for help, but Solas knelt over him, pressing a hand over his mouth. His sharp features seemed carved of ice. He didn’t recognise the man above him. For a brief moment, his face flashed into something decayed, but familiar. _Fear._ No, _Despair._ The demon shed Solas' form in favour of its black, shredded shroud.

“It is a mercy, my friend,” Despair whispered, icy breath hitting his face as it placed a skeletal hand above his heart. The next shock might have stopped it beating entirely.

“Yin, stay with me!” The voice was like golden silk, though tattered and worn. When the blackness cleared from his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Dorian leaning over him, tears in his eyes. “Yes, look at me, listen. You’re going to be all right.” 

He tried to speak, to tell him he loved him, but his eyes rolled back into his head.

Hands caught and steadied him on his feet.

_“Ah, the sting of betrayal,”_ a deep voice made of electrified bees hummed through him. When his vision came back and he could breathe again, he found himself in a forest of eerie pine trees that felt like it should have been familiar. Where there should have been dirt and grass and moss, tiles of gold and silver paved the forest floor instead. The air was heavy, but not with the stirrings of a storm or that of a swamp…

The swamp. The marshes, that’s where he was. Solas had once taken him back to Haven in a dream. A memory. And this…this was the swamp as it _had_ been. He could tell because the air felt similar though the surroundings were different. _It’s still hungry._

_“You are clever,”_ the voice rang out again. It was speaking Antivan. He knew this man. Or thing. It had spoken to him before. _“Although I wonder how much of it is your own and what is given to you by the magic in your palm.”_

_“Who are you?”_ Yin demanded. _“Were you not slain by Maordrid?”_ A great echoing laugh came out from the trees ahead. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to walk after it, but he did. He wasn’t sure what else he could do. Waking up was not an option.

_“My kind do not die so easily, child. I am not your enemy.”_

_“But neither are you my friend.”_

_“No. I am merely an observer, watching as you act upon the world’s stage.”_

“ _You have a kind—that means there are more of you?”_ Yin said, merging with the trees. _“My…friend said that spirits do not die the same as mortals. Are you a spirit then? One that was killed and came back as something else?”_ _Not something better. Something worse._ He thought he saw a flicker of movement ahead and turned toward it. 

_“What I am is of no concern to you. What matters is what we share, you and I. A fate thrust upon you by the actions of someone else.”_

 _“If you were in the Fade when we were, then you would know that my actions were my own. What happened to me is my own damn fault,”_ he said. Farther into the forest, the memory—or whatever it was—began to resemble more of the marsh in the waking realm. Mangrove trees, grassy stagnant puddles, and other vine-covered trees began to take over the proud dark pines. His invisible company laughed deeply.

_“There is more spirit in you than most mortals, I see. But even that will not be enough to save you in the end. That is, if your friends do not kill you first. And I see that one of them has already tried.”_ Yin stopped, feeling like he’d been punched in the stomach. 

_“Get out of my head,”_ he ordered.

_“Fret not, child. This is the last time you will hear from me. I am not interested in taking your soul or killing you. The world will do that on its own. I grow weary, however. I will take my leave. Give my regards to your Maordrid.”_ Before Yin could ask any more questions, the mark flared up like it had in the Nightmare’s domain. White hot pain shot up into his skull and the scream that tore through the dream didn’t seem like his own. He gripped his hand in sweat-slicked fingers, falling to his knees.

“Yin?” Through the excruciating pain and green blinding in his left eye, someone emerged from the trees that sent him scrambling backwards in fear. 

“No, not again!” He lifted the spasming mark in the air as a warning. “Stay away, Solas.” The elf stopped, brows drawing down and hands clenching loosely at his sides.

“ _Your_ distress summoned me here from my own dreams. Please, let me help, Inquisitor,” he begged. Yin shook his head wildly while an equally deranged scream tore its way from his throat again when the Anchor surged with a force that yanked him into the air. He heard Solas shout before he was blasted backward. When he skidded into the ground, he lay groaning, holding his head. Footsteps pattered across the ground and Solas was kneeling at his side, taking his hand firmly. Yin went to yank it from him, but the Fade shifted so sickeningly that he emptied his stomach instead. They were on some hillock by the sea. The air was clear…and so were his thoughts. He groaned, resting his still-aching head in the flowers.

“I don’t know what is real anymore or why this keeps happening,” he moaned, giving in and allowing Solas to do whatever to his hand. 

“You are alive. That much is real,” Solas answered. “The mark acting up was reminiscent of what you experienced in the Fade at Adamant. This was likely a mere nightmare—a Despair or Fear that decided to prey on that memory.” Yin pulled from his grip and glared at him. “Where are you at in waking?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he hissed. Solas tilted his head to the side. 

“Whatever you saw…”

“You _stabbed_ me, Solas. And apparently got away with it, if _you’re_ here,” Yin said. “That was very much _not_ in the Fade this time. So unless you have a very convincing excuse—”

“I do,” Solas interrupted. “The Venatori uncovered a hidden Elvhen temple and in doing so released dormant magics. Maordrid and I were forced to retreat into it before you arrived and were trapped. I was wounded and through pure accident, our blood activated an old ward that hid us from sight while the magic created perfect copies of myself and Maordrid. She said they left with you.” Yin sat back peering at him with wide eyes as the missing pieces began to fall into place. “I believe they were enslaved spirits bound with a very complex magic that may have allowed them to imitate us perfectly, especially if aided by the power of our own blood.” The image of Solas trying to count his fingers past the mark resurfaced. _Cole said I was too bright once. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t tell._

“No, not perfectly,” Yin said tiredly, “There was something off from the beginning but we…nevermind what we thought. If it really wasn’t you—”

“It was not.” Solas paused. “What happened when you left?”

“We fled the area because the forest was filled with demons. But you—or your impostor was wounded and begged us to stop—”

“It must have tried to come up with a reason to keep you from leaving the boundaries of the temple’s magics,” Solas said, pressing a thumb to his lips in thought. Yin nodded—the logic was sound, if he was telling the truth.

“I thought you were gravely injured, so we set up camp and…” Yin took a breath, looking to the side at the ocean. “The _thing_ wearing your face stabbed me in my sleep. It sapped my magic…and I think I fainted from blood loss.”

“The same thing happened to Maordrid with her magic,” Solas said, then paused, face growing even more concerned. “Do you know if you are safe? What happened to the others?” He’d thought it nothing but another vision, but he remembered being shocked in the first dream. How real it had felt…and then Dorian’s face appearing above him. He had regained consciousness, only briefly.

“I think I’ve been in the Fade this whole time without realising it. But at some point I think I woke up and Dorian was there, which means everyone is probably with him,” Yin shook his head, remembering the first dream-turned-nightmare. Of the poison he’d never gotten around to making and the ironic symbolism that followed the conversation soon after. “ _Che sfortuna_. Are…are you and Maori all right then?” Solas suddenly looked ancient—weary.

“We are a little worse for wear, but otherwise relatively safe for now,” he said with a quiet sigh. “We are making our way to Val Royeaux. Slowly. I trust that is still the plan?” Yin nodded, turning his gaze back out at the tranquil scene.

“Yeah.” There was an almost-peaceful pause. Yin was still hurting from…well, all of it. “This is a nice place.” A fond smile formed on Solas’ lips.

“You may stay as long as you like. It is a sanctuary I created for Maordrid during one of her more…violent nightmares. I do not think she will mind.” Solas got slowly to his feet. “I should wake. If all goes well, we shall see you in the city.” Yin nodded, rubbing an ache in his chest where the wound was. He thought he might be waking soon too. “I bid you a speedy recovery, Inquisitor. _Dareth shiral.”_

“ _Dareth.”_ Solas vanished, leaving him alone with his melancholy. He could not help but feel a little bit more paranoid after everything. It didn’t help that he remembered in that moment something Solas had said in what seemed an age ago— _just remember, an enemy can attack, but only an ally can betray you. Betrayal is always worse._

And he was right. It was. He prayed to every god, even to Fen’harel himself that none of his nightmares ever came true.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Three_ sodding days later, they’d reached Val Royeaux by some miracle. That miracle was Frederic. The bloody man might have had his head in the clouds flying around with dragons at all times of the day, but he was still a researcher that ventured out into the wild. His tracking-guiding skills were sharper than some Dalish she’d met—including herself. And he’d done it so humbly, even going so far as teaching her along the way. She could see why he was a professor. 

She’d hardly gotten a chance to even explore the city since it started pouring rain the morning they separated from Yin and Dorian. And here she was, safe and warm in the Professor’s cluttered villa. The first day there they’d simply pulled the cart around the side into a small courtyard with a stable, unharnessed the animals, then promptly passed out in the hay. When they’d gained some life back Dhrui had helped Frederic to unload his cart into his study. 

After, they fell into a tense silence where neither could relax even when Frederic lit his small hearth and made some tea. All she could do was stare out of the window and hope no one was dead. She had no idea where they were supposed to be staying in the city officially, nor did she know the layout of the city itself. The first morning after arriving, Frederic had eagerly shown her to the Sun Gates. She hadn’t expected him to stick around in the rain and wait with her, but apparently he had something called honour and had also grown quite fond of everyone in the company. _Except for Solas._

So they sat under just under the gates, barely sheltered by the rain and waited. Waiting was stressful business. Every sound behind and in front of her was something to be looked at, in case it was one of the others approaching. Every figure in the distance was scrutinised until they came close enough to dismiss as _not them_ and every voice became a tiresome game of parsing accents, though almost every single one of them were Orlesian. The first morning came and went agonisingly slow.

Back at the villa, she was trying to focus on reading a book she’d found in Solas’ pack, because who else’s belongings would she rifle through while they were gone? She’d already dissected Maordrid’s—away from Frederic’s prying eyes—and found disappointingly little. Solas, however, carried five hefty tomes—with a few smuggled into his saddlebags—and three notebooks all filled with some of the most beautiful handwriting she’d ever seen. And of course nearly all of it was written in elven. She translated a little, but then decided she had a conscience and stopped trying even though it was largely academic by the looks of it. Her current muse was an unmarked tome that contained various information on the nature of the Veil. So far it included the audible frequencies at which it apparently ‘vibrated’, the information having been attained using magic— _surprise_ —and normal lyrium. That tied into how one could discern its strength and weak points as well. 

Her attention eventually drifted back to the window and the gloomy skies beyond which then made her drowsy. 

Dhrui woke later with a blanket covering her and a little plate with a few cookies and a cold cup of chamomile tea on the side. She took her tea over to the window while heating it up with a spell and stared out, sipping on the smooth porcelain. Everything in Val Royeaux was starkly different than the aravels and forests she’d grown up in. And being inside of a house—or villa, whatever the humans called them—was something she didn’t think she’d ever get used to. Her family had left Antiva to live with Clan Lavellan too early for her to really remember the house they’d had before. She tried not to think too much about her clan and the warm familiarity of everyone. Sometimes she missed Raj a little even though she knew that the moment she and Yin ever went back he’d be an insufferable prick to them both about being submerged in human culture. He would probably do it in front of Dorian and Blackwall, too. Istii would box his ears and then ask whether she’d found someone to bond to yet. Dhrui would lie and say no but be thinking of Blackwall when she did. She knew her gruff Warden would get along with many in her clan. _I miss him and his gross jokes, damn it._

She continued imagining. Braern would glower at Istii for her suggestions that his daughter settle down and then whisper to Dhrui that she didn’t ever have to grow up and do any of that shit. Then he would take her and her siblings into the woods with a small feast to their mother whose grave was back in Antiva, far from the Free Marches.

There had been a pit in her stomach ever since leaving her clan. The instinct that she might never return. And now that she had gotten wrapped up in the centre of it, she knew that was the truth. It was probably the same for Yin. She couldn’t imagine Dorian…or Blackwall, if she kept going down that path, settling down in a Dalish clan.

Dhrui heard Frederic enter the room and saw him come to stand beside her at the window.

“Thanks for the treats.” 

“Of course,” he said, then fell silent. Dhrui sighed and peered into her teacup. Frederic hadn’t talked a whole lot since the demons—or whatever they were—had attacked. She wasn’t sure if he had seen her run Maordrid through. She knew the conversation was coming.

“Are you doing all right?” she asked, deciding she wanted to get it over with.

“Yes. Very—quite.” She raised a brow. 

“You know, for being Orlesian you are rubbish at your notorious Game.” Frederic laughed nervously and fingered the persimmon coloured scarf around his neck. At least it wasn’t the ruff that made him look like some demented main course for a meal. Human noble styles were impractical.

“Perhaps that is why I prefer the field to teaching in my old classroom,” he admitted. “I am a terrible liar and at least there is no worry to be had about manners or careful words around wildlife.” Dhrui quirked a smile and looked back out the window.

“I understand. Orlesians are scary.” She sipped her tea, watching a man in a giant dripping wig running down the street, cursing the rain loudly. “It’s safe to speak freely with me. I’m a wild Dalish but you don’t have to worry about my claws or fangs coming out. I have some manners and civility.” Frederic chuckled politely.

“I have learned much on this journey. Everyone had so many experiences to share,” he said, sounding like an eager _da’len_ at story time. “I find myself feeling slightly melancholic that it is over…but also quite relieved to be out of the marshes.” He shuddered, looking a bit traumatised.

“Before you know it, you’ll be back out hunting dragons,” she said. Frederic didn’t say anything. _Oh, right._

“I had been looking forward to Lady Murdrid’s company,” _Wow, what a surprise,_ “She denied having any deeper knowledge on dragons. I think she was simply shy or humble about what she knew—knows. I have a hunch that she could read a thing or two in the manuscript. And, don’t repeat this to anyone because I think she would slit my throat, but…she has _actually_ spoken to dragons before! She demonstrated one or two words after I begged her for two days straight and it was…perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Besides the roar of an actual dragon.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dhrui remarked. _She can turn into one, but I’ve yet to see that._ “And you’re right, don’t repeat that to anyone. People would probably accuse her of being a demon.”

“Pah! It is not as though anyone would believe it without evidence anyway.” That gave her pause.

“But you believe her?” she asked. Frederic gave a mocking chuckle that was shockingly similar to one of Dorian’s.

“Pardon me, but have you _spoken_ to the woman? I’ve never met anyone like her. It’s like she’s from a different world—” Dhrui almost, _almost_ laughed. “—and the things she has described to me are things I have only read of in books. I do wish I could access the Fade as she does. It sounds like the wealth of knowledge it holds is unimaginable.”

“That’s something you don’t hear every day,” she couldn’t help saying. “Most people think the Fade is evil and full of demons that wish only to tempt you.” Now she sounded like Solas.

“I do not come from a traditional background of Andrastianism, Lady Lavellan. I have seen my fair share of oddities in my travels that have made me question the teachings of the Chantry. And after spending time with your company it has only brought me more questions. It is exciting to hear different perspectives.” The sound of rain hitting the window pane was the only noise for a few seconds, but she could almost feel Frederic building up for the next wave of words. “Could I ask you a personal question, my Lady?” 

“No promises, but go ahead,” she said. 

“You seem very close with Lady M…Moordrid—” He gave a painful pause that she wasn’t sure was from _still_ not being able to pronounce her name or if he was embarrassed for the other obvious reason. 

“She’s like a sister to me. And my mentor,” she assented.

“Y-Yes. I…I am just worried for her, since what we saw in the marshes wasn’t her,” he said. “And I am not sure I understand what happened out there.” She shrugged, feeling a bit small with what little she understood. 

“I’m worried too, but I don’t know anymore than you do, honestly. I…I’m going to wait just a couple more days and if no one shows up at the Sun Gate then I’ll probably send a letter to Skyhold.” She looked at him, trying to convey a little bit of hope. “I think it’ll take a little more than that to stop any of them from coming back.” He flashed a weak smile, not meeting her eyes. Her heart went out to the poor man. “Look, the thing wearing her face was cruel to you. But it was a demon.” _And you should take comfort that they were demons because I’m pretty sure the real Solas might have seen to it that your dreams became nightmares for all of eternity._

“Demon or not…I am only appalled at my actions that night. Faced with the prospect that she may have had interest in _me_ was—Maker, to put it bluntly, _terrifying._ And…I was a little hopeful, but alas, I knew there was something inordinate about her behaviour. She does not seem like the type to give her affections within so short a time.” Frederic gave a stunted laugh. “I apologise for spilling my heart out to you. I do not have any friends to speak to anymore.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t work out for you, I think she sees you as a friend. And since you like dragons, you’re probably on her special list anyway.” 

“I certainly hope that at the very least we could be friends,” he said, surprising her. And here she thought most human men were brutish, jealous bastards.

“Just don’t try kissing her or something stupid like that. She’ll eat you for breakfast. Or feed you to a dragon. Or turn into a dragon and eat you, who knows.” Frederic finally gave a genuine laugh. It was nice and full and actually charming—she joined in too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Dhrui spent the next three days trekking back and forth between Frederic’s University villa and the Sun Gate when she’d finally memorised the way. Frederic always came with her in the mornings but she’d decided to spend more time just waiting and watching beyond the early hours. He decided to conduct a little research with what he had at his abode and began preparing to approach the University to gain access for all of them, if the others were to ever show up.

For the most part, she went unnoticed by the Orlesians in the area and she was content with ignoring them back. 

Until she was forced not to. 

The gates weren’t always populated, so it was easy to simply take a quick observation of all the people milling about and then go back to watching the roads. Usually there was a handful of visitors from different nations come to admire the impressive gates and their history but she never saw the same people twice. When her own visits became more frequent she was a little more paranoid that someone with authority might get annoyed and shoo her along. 

She underestimated the unpredictability of the Orlesian capital.

Dhrui was about to return to Frederic’s villa for the day when a shrill whistle made her stop and spin to see what the commotion was. Carriage drivers often came through the gates shouting or whistling as a warning to those on foot, so she immediately stepped from the middle of the path to the side. Doing so, however, put her directly in the path of the man who’d done the whistling. He was a tall fellow with broad shoulders and a fair bit of armour on him. She couldn’t see his face since it was hidden behind a helm with another countenance worked into it. His lips and jaw were the only things she could see and…they were currently twisted into what looked like a leer. Her stomach sank when she realised he must be a Chevalier.

“I have seen you in this area every day looking like some lost poppet,” he said in a demanding baritone. “Dangerous for a young lady to be without an escort.” _He hasn’t seen my ears yet,_ she thought, resisting the urge to tug her hood down farther. “Unless I am mistaken and you have been waiting for a paramour. Yet I have not yet seen you leave with anyone.” 

“You’ve been…watching me?” she said with alarm. The man smirked.

“I watch all that pass through this gate,” he said but she knew it was a lie. He hadn’t been there the first two times Frederic had come. “Do not look so frightened, _mademoiselle,_ I aim to assist.” 

“I can assure you that I am fine and I am not lost,” she said. “My business is my own, with all due respect.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand—my intentions are not malignant. I believe you will find them quite favourable, in fact. Judging by your accent, you are far from home,” the man continued. “Foreigners stick out like a broken bone and serve as a beacon to…more unsavoury folk.” He wasn’t going to leave her alone.

“I am waiting for the Inquisitor,” she tried, not expecting it to work. And it didn’t. The man cast his head back and laughed. Of course she left behind her Inquisition pin that she couldn’t flash to bothersome people like him. 

“Yes, the Inquisition is the new ‘I am the Empress’ messenger’ excuse. But I know that the Inquisitor never leaves that ridiculous castle in the sky that everyone talks about.” Her fingers curled into fists at the casual disdain in his voice. “Truly, he is but a growing despot that intends to overthrow the Chantry with elves and mages. I would not be surprised to learn that he has fallen in bed with that Briala woman.” _I know that name…but from where?_ “A word of advice, _mon chéri—_ come up with a better excuse.” 

“Are you going to supply me with one more befitting of _your_ taste, then?” she said icily. “Or will you continue to waste my time?”

“Time? That is all you seem to have.” Dhrui didn’t know why she was even trying to argue. She turned on her heel and stalked off wondering if he would follow her all the way back to the Professor’s if she ran. But no, she couldn’t do that. Frederic likely didn’t have any authority over a Chevalier. 

As long as she kept on the populated streets maybe he wouldn’t try anything?

“Come, come! Have I offended you somehow?” Her self-restraint was rising to a near boiling point when gauntleted fingers closed about the back of her hood, pulling it down. There was a brief moment of silence as he realised just what she was. She almost expected to hear steel drawn and a slur shouted, but instead she heard him step closer and breath reeking of a lunch of fish made her nose wrinkle. “What a pleasant surprise. An exotic little rabbit.” 

Dhrui ran. She picked a direction—toward the villa—and dashed down an alley. If people saw an elf running from a Chevalier, they would immediately side with the human. The chase didn’t last long, for she didn’t know the city. The second corridor she took was a dead end and the Chevalier was quick. Maybe her magic—a fist closed around her arm and swung her against the wall before she could react and suddenly a body was pressed up against hers. She screamed but a hand found its way over her mouth while the one at her arm moved to her throat.

“You cannot deny me,” he jeered. He’d removed his helm at some point and now she’d seen his face. Brown hair closely shorn with soulless eyes to match the colour. Thin lips and a nose with too small nostrils. Magic encased her fingers in white hot heat meant to scorch flesh. She inched her free hand to the open flesh at his neck as he groped her—

“Oi, I’ll give you two seconds to get the fuck off of her before I get on _you_ with my knives!” a woman shouted from behind. The Chevalier, thankfully stopped but did not release her. 

“Another woman? Please, you will be ne—” The man’s body jerked and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head. When he crumpled, a woman wearing Inquisition colours was sheathing the blade she’d used to knock him out. The agent grabbed her by the arm and guided her out of the alley swiftly. 

“You’re the Inquisitor’s sister, aren’t you?” the woman asked. 

“Yes,” she answered, still dazed and feeling like she needed a cold bath. 

“I’m Argent, one of Leliana’s. You're seriously lucky I remembered the white braid and the tattoos description,” the human said. They hurried through a close in a wall and into a courtyard that they used to cross to yet some other street. It was all very disorienting. “Been expecting the Inquisitor to show up but we’ve not heard anythin’. Are you alone, Lady?”

“I’m here with Professor Frederic of Serault,” she answered methodically and allowed herself to be sat down on a bench by Argent who offered her some water. “We were separated in the marshes west of here. Yin was wounded and Master Pavus took him to the city of Val Foret.” 

“Shite. I’m gonna have to write a report to Leliana. How long ago was that?”

“Six days now.” Dhrui rubbed her throbbing chest. “I don’t know what happened to Solas or Maordrid either.” Argent nodded dutifully, eyes shifting up and down the quiet street. “I’ve been watching the Sun Gate every morning where Yin is supposed to meet me. But since it’s been so long…I’m worried.” 

“I’ll send someone down the Highway to look for them. I wager you’ve a place to stay? Safe, hopefully. I’d take you to the inn you’re all s’posed to shack up in but I don’t wanna isolate you after that fuckhead made his move.” _Gods, I miss Blackwall. He knew all about Orlais and stupid Chevaliers._ Dhrui nodded slowly. “Wanna come with? Maker knows you need something to keep your mind off that.” Argent procured a scarred hand that Dhrui clasped once she was ready. 

“Thanks,” she told the agent. “I probably would have killed him.” 

“I know I would have in your stead. But they’re like roaches when you do—kill one and more somehow appear. And with elves, they flock to you like beer. Did you know roaches like that shit?” Dhrui peered at the chatty woman only slightly overwhelmed. “Sorry, kid. I have it out for Chevs. I could talk about killing them all day.”

“The more you talk about it, the stronger the temptation grows to go back and finish him off,” Dhrui muttered. “I know a Dalish or two that’ve cooked up cockroaches to eat as snacks.” Argent snickered, glancing back at her as they emerged suddenly along the road of the Sun Gate.

“You should introduce us!” 

A trilling whistle to their left had Dhrui nearly jumping out of her skin. The two of them turned to face the gates and before her mind caught up with her body, she was running.

Two battered men were sliding off the back of a white hart. She collided with the biggest one, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders in a squeeze that threatened to crush the air from him.

“ _Suina mar abelas, mar telsilal,”_ he murmured into her ear. A sob twisted its way from her. His own arms closed around her tightly. _“All is well, little sister.”_

And it was. It really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation(s):  
>  _Che sfortuna_ \- how unlucky  
>  _Suina mar abelas, mar telsilal_ \- quiet your sorrow, your worries
> 
> (I have no idea how Argent sounds or what her personality is like, sorry!)
> 
>  
> 
> I am also sorry for the huge break, friends! I got delayed with E3 and was religiously watching the streams for signs of DA4.  
> Thank you for your patience and support, as always!  
> And also, everyone is welcome to come talk (or shout) at me on tumblr->[my humble blog](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (I was going to do a write up on Solas' character arc for this story but I think I might do that next chapter or on my tumblr.)


	79. Changes & Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written to this song...but it honestly fits Maori (well, Maori/Solas) really well.  
> [Short Change Hero](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjTTB6yII4o)  
> Pls go listen to it at some point, before or after you've read this. I beg of you.

  


Some time later, Dorian, Yin, Dhrui, Argent, and Frederic were crowded in the Professor’s study. Yin was clad only in his shirtsleeves due to the wound still healing and Dorian hovered by him as though he were made out of the porcelain they sipped tea from.

“I died, apparently,” Yin said, attempting to sound lighthearted about it. Dorian huffed and cocked a hand back as if to smack the back of his head but then dropped it with a scowl.

“Clinically, yes,” Dorian said. “But only briefly.”

“Anyway, Dorian got me to a healer before it was permanent and they shocked me back alive with magic,” Yin said, his teacup comically small in his hands. “The recovery was the worst. But I’ll never badmouth blood magic again. It’s both killed and saved me.” 

“The healer was a blood mage?” Dhrui asked, surprised. Yin nodded.

“Never made it to the city since the situation became dire quickly. Had to make do with a tiny cottage with bone chimes and goat hides hanging everywhere,” Dorian said. “Anyhow, she was a mad genius. Only uses blood magic to heal. Yin might have too much blood in him now. And he might be part goat as well.” 

“Anyway, if you’re going to be sending off a report to Leliana, include a note for Josephine to send a herd of goats to Eld Tol of Val Foret as payment,” Yin told Argent. Frederic leaned forward in his rickety chair to pour himself from tea from the metal pot balanced precariously on the cluttered table.

“What about the others?” he asked. “They are still missing, yes?” Yin’s face grew grim.

“There’s a possibility they could be here, but I don’t know. Solas found me in a dream when I was…er, dying, and last I heard they were making their way here. I’ve no idea how to get back in contact with him since every time it’s been accidental,” he said. “Short of returning to those woods, we don’t have much of a choice other than to wait and hope they arrive soon.” The silence that fell was about as heavy as the rain outside. “Until then…I’d like to rest. I’m not entirely recovered. But if three days go by and there’s no sign of them, I’ll write to Skyhold and request that we get a search party out there.” 

“Understood, Inquisitor,” Argent said with a low bow. “Would you like to be shown to the inn?” Yin smiled at Frederic.

“That would probably be best. No need to intrude on the good Professor,” he said, raising his cup in toast to the man who gave him a weak, worried smile in return.

“I would love to host you all, but I think my humble lodgings are just a little small for everyone to fit comfortably,” he said. It _was_ quite cramped. There was a study, a kitchen, and then an upstairs bed chamber with a small bath attached to it. “And the mess…I have not been back home for half a year. I’d forgotten the state I left it in.” 

“You’ve been a lovely host, Professor,” Dhrui said. “ _Ma serannas_ for your hospitality.” Frederic turned redder than his hair and nodded graciously. On that, the three companions finished their tea and followed Argent out the front door. 

“I will be sure to find you immediately once I have secured a date to visit the University’s library!” Frederic called out after them. 

Their small party then made their way through the city to the opposite side and into a district that was painstakingly clean. The streets seemed like they’d never been walked on and the golden trim on most of the buildings was borderline excessive. 

“Gods, I hope Josephine didn’t spend half our coffers on this place,” Yin said as they all craned their necks to take in the place Argent had led them. “Last time we stayed in our tents outside the city.”

“You are more than welcome to do that. I, for one, cannot _wait_ for my well-deserved bath,” Dorian said, throwing open the ornate blue doors. 

Inside, Dhrui and Dorian waited as Yin and Argent approached a fancy ‘service desk’ where a bespectacled Orlesian man stood. Things were quickly arranged and Argent took her leave, waving farewell to Dhrui on her way out. 

“Well, since we came in late for our fancy reservation they gave us a temporary room to share. At least until Solas and Maordrid arrive. And then apparently they’ll move us around?” Yin explained as they went up a marble staircase, staring at the delicate golden key in his hand. “I’m not even going to try understanding Orlesian logic.”

“The better route, for sure. You’d have to lose half your brain to do that,” Dorian said. “Too much arithmetic to solve a simple rooming issue.”

The room itself was far grander than anything Dhrui had ever seen, but Dorian had plenty of complaints— _mismatched colour schemes, the too-wide gap beneath the door, no complimentary snacks or bathing oils._ Yin just nodded and hummed, tossing his things down and then falling onto the bed where he quickly passed out. When Dorian finally stopped his ranting and turned to look at Yin, his face softened. 

“ _Kaffas_. It’s been a long week.” He looked at her where she’d taken up roost on the single chaise in the room. “I’m bathing,” he promptly said, then disappeared through the only other door. Dhrui curled up in her cloak and followed her brother’s suit. She was too emotionally exhausted and sore from her struggle to keep up with the rest of the day. And now she felt like she could relax…at least for a little while.

  


  


**[Days earlier] ******

****

  


  


Rain. Cold. Silence and hunger. Misery both inside and without.

They’d foraged and tried to hunt but came up with nothing. Their stomachs talked, but they did not.

Words just wouldn’t come. Solas had abandoned his wolf form at the beginning of the first night. They hadn’t spoken at all during the day except to point out directions— _let’s go this way; let’s rest here—_ and she knew he wanted to talk to her when they stopped. She didn’t shapeshift back. Wallowing again in the remnants of her own dream. She couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead, she padded over and curled up beside him, pretending to be asleep. Solas covered them both again in his cloak and pressed his back against her flank to conserve heat in the downpour. He slept and she watched over him and the forest. 

When he woke he was disgruntled, blinking back into the world with bloodshot eyes. Rest was not coming easy for him either, then.

“I dreamt of the Inquisitor.” Solas coughed and wrapped himself in his cloak, sitting up. She turned her great head to look at him. “He was attacked by the impostors and wounded…but he is alive. They will be headed to Val Royeaux.” She dipped her head and resumed watching the wet forest. She sensed his eyes on her but she avoided him. “Would you bereave me of your face the rest of this journey?” She breathed out through her nose and released the aspect. 

“We are going to catch sick if we do not continue to move,” she said without looking at him. He coughed again and she worried that he already had. She almost reached out to him—her hand lifted halfway and then dropped back to her side. However, when they did decide to move, it was together. 

That day was much the same as the last. They went hungry again. Until she found a berry bush. By then she was somewhat desperate for a little sustenance and ate a handful. The cramps and the sweats that followed were hard to hide from Solas, but she pulled her hood up and suffered in silence. She had a feeling he knew anyway, judging by the way he kept touching her elbow every so often. And how that night he somehow found a bit of sad elfroot that he gave to her to chew on. 

By noon of the next day, all pleasantness between them had been dropped. It was difficult to think past the irritation of thirst and hunger. 

“Three days. It has been three days and we have not seen the road or signs of civilisation,” she said, voice hoarse from disuse. “Between the two of us…it should not have taken this long.” Solas stopped ahead, hands curling. His head raised slightly to look over his shoulder at her.

“Ah. Now she breaks her silence,” he said coolly. 

“I am right here, Solas,” she deadpanned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, turning to the side. “Speak your thoughts, if you have something to say.”

“I do not think we are lost,” he said. “But if we have been going due east…we should have seen something, you are right.” The rain pounded down around and on them. Solas’ eyes were squinted against the droplets hammering relentlessly against his hood. His was better made than hers—it was just beginning to saturate. She’d been soaked for the last three hours and her jaw was beginning to ache from its clench against the cold. Maori cast her gaze to the sobbing skies. “If you could shift into a bird…” he began giving voice to her own thoughts. She stepped up beside him.

“See from above. Yes. Well. If the wind doesn’t buffet me into a tree…”

“I will catch you.” Face still tilted to the grey, she raised a brow and frowned at him. Perhaps she had read him wrong.

“I doubt that, but the thought is comforting,” she said.

“If you fall, try to keep your form. Catching a body plummeting from the air is significantly more difficult.” He smirked, a rare expression these days. 

“It almost sounds as though you want to catch me,” she said, realising then how much she missed their companionship. 

“Under a different context, perhaps. And preferably lacking in danger entirely.” If she was Dalish and having this conversation, the irony would be strong. At least…she wasn’t feeling _too_ miserable anymore. A little warm, actually.

“Was it not you who said it could be dangerous for us both?” She regretted the cheeky words as soon as they left her mouth. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes dark within his hood.

“Take care that the storm does not sweep you away.” His voice was _just_ audible over the rain. She tried not to dwell on the subtle implications of his words. She took a step back holding his gaze then shifted, throwing herself into the sky. Water pelted her feathers and sprayed all around her as she beat her wings hard against the wind that she discovered higher up in the trees. She managed to find a pine that she perched on precariously, huddling as close as she could to its centre. From this height, she should have been able to see quite a ways. But with the deluge it was difficult to tell anything. _Everything_ looked the same. She heard Solas shout from below and decided to return since there was nothing to see. Hopping down the branches like steps proved to be safer than flying down. When she reached the lowest branch Solas was standing directly below, looking up. With a puff of smoke, she balanced on the branch on the balls of her feet and shook her head.

“Too stormy,” she said, swinging down. He frowned and put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the forest around them. “We cannot keep wandering like this. Our foraging has been fruitless…starvation looms.” 

“I know,” he said.

“And this walking in circ—” She stopped, mouth hanging open. “Do you think this might have something to do with the temple?” 

“That was my thought as well. I had begun to draw that conclusion yesterday…and you have all but confirmed it,” he said with a nod. “It seems the magic is yet to disperse.”

“The question is…how and what?” she asked, pulling the tatters of her cloak around her. It only shielded her upper torso at this point. 

“How is it keeping us here? I can speculate…”

“Better than silence.” He regarded her with an unamused expression. 

“The magic we have encountered so far has been reliant on mimicry and illusion,” he continued. “Symbolically, reflection.”

“That does not exactly answer anything,” she said. “Unless you are suggesting we try to return to the temple itself.”

“It may be our only option,” he said grimly. “Otherwise…there is no telling how long it will take for the magic to fade on its own.” She rotated on the spot, trying to remember which direction it was in. 

“Then I suppose we should get going,” she said.

“Come, I do not think I have lost my complete sense of direction.” She followed him to what she _thought_ might be north, but it was impossible to tell. Their surroundings hardly changed as they walked, but the quiet between them wasn’t as painful as it had been. He dropped back beside her, easily keeping her pace. Incidentally, his shoulder kept brushing her arm and she knew she had misconceived everything - even herself. He'd been waiting for _her_ to stop moping this time. 

"I am sorry I have been quiet, Solas," she blurted after too long. "My mind often gets the best of me. I have treated you poorly."

"It is understandable, considering our situation," he said, nudging her shoulder with a small smile. "But I must say, I have missed your company. Will you tell me what has been on your mind?” She knew if she didn’t answer, then it was doing exactly the opposite of what he needed. Love and trust. Friendship. Easier said than done. And it hurt that he _missed_ her. How could she deny him?

“This is new to me,” she apologised. Solas’ chuckle was more of a hum.

“To me as well. I have been…learning from Yin. To trust, though it is hard.” His words were like a hook on a fishing line, slowing her steps. “And you matter enough to me to try.” A hot poker joined the hook, pressing down on her heart. _I am so sorry, Solas._

They came to another stop beneath a bur oak with a split down the middle. Its sprawling branches provided some relief from the rain. She placed a hand against the uneven lobes of grey bark, looking down at its roots in thought. 

“When I dreamed after the temple…Protection found me,” she started as he leaned against the twin tree. 

“It survived?” There was relief in his voice. “That is good news.” Her arms crossed her body again, holding the fractures together.

“I wish it had gone after we escaped. That is what it deserves,” her breath came in sharp, painful, “I took from it. I caused it pain. I did not listen when I should have. And all I have ever offered in return are watery apologies and silence, only coming back when I needed something.” She bit her lip, shaking her head. “In the desert when I spoke to Protection the first night, I heeded your words. You remember what you told me?”

“Yes. I remember,” he said softly.

“I did not stop with an apology. I asked for more because I am a fool.” She swallowed back her nausea, “What it did in that temple may have sealed its fate. There was no chance at redemption. No chance to prove myself better than I used to be—at least, not yet. I should never have approached it in the first place.” Solas’ eyes were…inscrutable when she checked his gaze. He mimicked her posture but beyond that she could not tell what he was thinking. “Damn it, Solas.” She choked up, tugging her hood down between shaking fingers. _Don’t you bloody cry._

“Find your peace, Maordrid. You need not rush.” She felt his aura reach out, wrapping around her like a blanket. She breathed easier and her stomach stopped trying to knot itself into oblivion. When she recovered, she hesitantly pushed back with her own aura—a caress against his before quietly withdrawing.

“In a way, I think it was an indemnity. Or maybe revenge.” A small, bitter laugh escaped her. “In saving my life, he can finally be rid of me if I fail. After all, it goes against his nature to bring harm. And he found a way around it.” Solas’ eyes widened.

“It…bound itself to you?” he whispered. “I have heard of such practises in the Fade undertaken by Augurs and mages of the Avvar…and even witches in Rivain—”

“He is not possessing me…or at least not in the sense you think. I believe he only used me to reach across the Veil long enough to disrupt Dirthamen’s magic,” she said. “It _is_ a bond, I know that much. If I die, he dies...and then he is free.” Neither of them said anything for a little while.

“May I ask what…what did you entreat?” 

“What was necessary. The world is threatened and I want to give all that I can to help protect it,” she answered truthfully, but then she met his eyes, “And I was selfish.”

“That is far from selfish,” he said, though judging by his tone he knew there was more. She tilted her head to the side.

“He did not agree until I mentioned you.” He hadn’t been expecting that answer. His face paled and he dropped his arms to his sides. “ _I want to protect Solas._ ” 

“Why would you ask that when there are so many uncertainties?” He pushed away from his tree, stalking forward with such force he left deep footprints in the detritus. His face was as stormy as the heavens. “With the threat we face—none of us may survive!” He took her by the shoulders, fingers tight. His eyes searched her own from beneath his hood as though looking for a lie, anything to tell him that what she said wasn’t true. 

“You answered your own question. If we all die, then what does it matter?” She gave him a wan smile. “It changes nothing, Solas. It is a promise to myself to try harder, if anything.” 

“No, that is where you are wrong,” his voice dropped, low and firm in a way that commanded her gaze to his. His hands squeezed her arms. “You change… _everything_.” His noble face filled her vision, eyes intense— _determined_ as he inclined his head, moving to close that final distance between her lips and his—the rain roared like the blood in her ears _and then—_

_“You will not take my soul!”_ a voice screamed and Solas halted _just_ before her mouth. They both turned their heads in unison searching for the disturbance. A flicker of red moved through the trees not far from where they stood, followed by the crashing of branches and fighting. Her heart wanted to reach for him again, to spill love across his lips like the rain, but this was not the time nor the place. She forced herself to pull away from him, summoning her spear and motioning for him to follow silently. He said something in elven that was drowned beneath the storm and joined her, keeping close. A trail of half-broken branches and trampled ferns guided her to a clearing formed by the interwoven roots of more oak trees. The sky was nearly blotted out by the thick foliage, giving them some cover from the rain. In the centre, however, were two men. One was straddling the other attempting to choke the life out of bottom but was dethroned when the loser clouted him in the side of the head with a rock. The man on the bottom scrambled up and raised his arm to finish him off but the slickened rock flew from his grip. That was when his eyes fell on her and Solas.

“Help me!” he cried. The one who’d been knocked recovered and twisted to face them. 

“Oh,” Maordrid uttered. Solas stopped, lips parted in question. 

Both men were identical in appearance. Her detail-oriented eyes took in the square, dark faces, noses like spades set beneath flinty eyes, and short, curly black hair. 

“Venatori,” Solas said, taking in the red and black uniforms. The one now bleeding from his head was almost pristine compared to the one who’d cried out. The rock-wielder looked like he had been sitting in a dungeon left to starve for a month. 

“Kill him!” Help-me ordered in an accent made thick by desperation. Head-bleed looked between them and Help-me with wide eyes.

“No, kill him! He’s Venatori scum!” Head-bleed exclaimed, voice cracking like a rusty gate. Maori dared a glance at Solas who gave a minute shrug.

“Shut _up_ ,” Help hissed, throwing a punch at his double. “He’s trying to murder me!”

“Looks like you are trying to kill each other,” Maori said, planting the butt of her spear between some roots. Head-bleed kicked his legs out, trying to get to his feet but Solas waved a hand and froze both mens’ feet in place.

“S-Ser, please, there’s no need for fighting!” Head-bleed said, raising a placating palm at Solas. Help-me’s sunken eyes widened in triumph and tried to dive at the twin but the ice grew until he couldn’t move at all.

“For now, it is to protect my friend and I,” Solas said, stepping closer to her. Head-bleed nodded several times, raising both his hands in surrender. “You came from the temple, did you not?”

“ _He_ came from it. _I_ came from Tevinter!” Help-me said explosively.

“I don’t even want to be part of this anymore,” the other said, leaning toward them, as though getting closer would sway them to his side. “I thought I was serving my country! That’s why I joined…but it was all lies. I just want to go home and _this_ thing has been chasing me!” The bedraggled Venatori looked repulsed at his double.

“The real me would never leave the Venatori,” he hissed, trying to reach for the rock again. Maori knocked it away with a burst of magic.

“Please, just let me go. If you kill him, then I can leave this horrible fucking South! I promise I’ll never return. I’ll never look back.” Maori touched Solas’ wrist. He leaned to her level, eyes never leaving the Venatori.

“Should we kill one or both?” she whispered into his ear. 

“Neither, for now. They may have answers,” he said into hers.

“Y-Yes! Answers, anything you like!” Head-bleed said, somehow hearing them. 

“Say not a word to them or I’ll brain you,” the other said, spittle flying from his lips. His dark eyes slid over to them. “He is a demon. You are mages, can you not tell?”

“I am not! Look at him, his skin barely fits. He is a pitiful creature that would immediately go crawling like a dog back to his abusive master!” the bleeder said.

“He does have a point,” Maori said. Solas raised his head slightly, looking down his nose while weighing both men with his eyes. He looked like a king in rags.

“How long have you been chasing one another around?” he asked. 

“A week,” the filthy one answered immediately. Solas’ sharp eyes flashed to the better mannered one.

“A week fighting one another…and there’s hardly any dirt or blood on you,” he said. Maori raised a brow, having not considered that.

“See, the knife ear doesn’t believe you!” the starved one said with a smug grin. The other glared at him.

“ _I_ would not insult the people currently holding my life in their hands,” he retorted. 

“I like this one’s relative civility,” Maori told Solas, nodding to the kempt one.

“The other is most likely the original, judging by his appearance. If you take our own selves into consideration…” Solas gestured between their ragged appearances. 

“If we let them both go one will eventually kill the other and there will be no knowing what could come of it,” Maori said. “Or we can control the situation and eliminate the biggest threat.”

“Keep in mind that we do not truly know the identity of the imitator,” he whispered. 

“You are leaving it up to me?” she hissed, uncomfortable with his sudden deference. Solas waited. “Very well, if it is my decision then I want you to kill the rude one.”

_“Ma nuvenin,”_ he said, raising a hand.

“W-What? N—” The bedraggled one’s protest was cut off as Solas closed his fist, freezing him solid. The remaining one yelped in fright and began yanking futilely at his frozen legs.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble!” he begged. 

“If I release you—” Maori started.

“I’ll leave and you won’t see me again. I’ll go naked if you like,” the Venatori said. Maordrid took a menacing step forward, ignoring Solas’ protective arm. She strode right up to the man and held her spear’s point against his throat.

“If we do, I will do worse than freeze you,” she said in her coldest voice. The Venatori’s throat bobbed, but his eyes were wide with crystalline understanding. She melted the ice with a gesture and stepped back, still holding the spear level with his neck as he staggered to his feet.

“Thank you, honoured ones,” he said, sounding truly grateful. “If I may ask one thing of you?”

“ _Maordrid_ ,” Solas warned.

“You are wearing on my patience. Speak,” she said with a glower at the cultist.

“Could you…point me in the direction of Tevinter?” She automatically pointed where she thought north was. The Venatori bowed and took slow steps backward. “You need not worry about me, _lethallin._ He turned down a dark path. I have long lived in the shadow of the one who enslaved me…I look forward to seeing the light again.” More out of shock than anything, Maordrid lowered her spear and watched the freed ‘spirit’ turn and disappear into the darkening woods. She sensed Solas close behind her.

“Did we do the right thing? Should I track it down?” she asked, still staring after it. 

“It was a spirit bound against its will,” he said thoughtfully. “If it spoke the truth and killing the double granted it freedom, I do not think it will last long in this world. Though I could be wrong.” That gave her pause.

“Could that mean we are trapped here because our doubles are still running around? Looking…for us?” she asked. 

“Yes, I believe so,” he said, coughing lightly into his elbow. “It seems we have ourselves a new objective.” She released her hold on the spear, glancing down at the entombed Venatori before them.

“Night will fall soon. We should find a good place to take shelter. Rise first light and hunt ourselves in form. I doubt they can shapeshift,” she said. 

“A good plan. Perhaps there is a water source nearby. If I recall the Inquisitor’s map correctly, there should be an abundance in the area,” Solas said as they set off again, opposite the direction the spirit went. “If it is not raining come morning, you could even try scouting the forest from above while I search below?” She nodded. 

“I think I will try to brave the winds again and find us a river or a pond.” She paused and half turned to him. “Stay safe. I’ll be back.” He nodded, drawing his cloak tighter around him while trying to stifle another cough. He was definitely coming down with something. Maori threw herself into the air as a hawk. Above the earth, she let the fury of the rain threatening to strike her down be her focus. 

  
\------------------------------------------- 

Sometime later, they found her pond by some miracle, perhaps two hours before nightfall. Everything was too wet for a fire, so they settled with building a small leanto with a couple of large branches and ferns for a roof. 

“That’s it. You _are_ getting sick!” Maori said when Solas had an actual coughing fit. 

“No! My throat is simply a little irritated. Dehydration, I think,” he said. It dawned on her that he had probably never been sick. He’d only been awake, what, a little over a year? And before that getting sick was rare. He probably had no idea what it was like. 

“Right. If I had a cup I would force elfroot tea down your throat,” she grumbled, trying to figure out how she could boil some water. All she had was her empty waterskin. She could try squeezing the juice from one into some water, but that would taste worse than the actual effect...

“I am _fine_ ,” he insisted. 

“ _Sure_. Though I will bet you’ll admit you are starving,” she said. He didn’t answer, the prideful bastard. “I could go hunting.”

“No, I will take a turn,” he said quickly. 

“I will forage?” He nodded, removing the bow from his shoulders and setting it beneath the leanto. 

“An hour, both of us. We should not be separated for long,” he said, stepping out of cover. 

“I would avoid killing nugs, should you find any.” Solas turned back, raising a brow. “If Dhrui found out her revenge would likely involve Shamun.” 

“I shall endeavour not to,” he remarked dryly, turning his back again.

“Solas,” he stopped, “If you are not by dark, I will assume something bad has happened and come after you.” He smirked over his shoulder.

“I do not doubt it.” Then he shifted and shot off into the forest. Her stress was just as quick to rise. Wandering the forest with a magelight to aid her in finding mushrooms and herbs was hardly therapeutic. Her mind was her own worst enemy.

She tried to centre herself in the moment, anchoring her inner self to everything her eyes took in—the _now_. The glistening foliage of the forest floor—how dark green the ferns and mosses were when they were wet. Her boots were soaked through and at this point quite useless so she tugged them off with a sound like sucking mud. The earth was cool beneath her soles, but not unpleasant. It had been a while since she’d last gone without boots or sabatons for reasons of battle and yet Solas was constantly barefoot. The confidence of that man.

She quickly swerved away from the thought of him, choosing instead to cut some elfroot from the ground. Elfroot that she would give to _him_ for the sickness he _definitely didn’t have_. Maori growled to herself and pulled her cloak around to use it as a makeshift holder for her findings. She found several hedgehog mushrooms hiding beneath decaying logs that she snatched up like gold. If Solas came back with a rabbit or squirrel…or anything, mushrooms were a good stuffing. With some spindleweed and dawn lotus added, they could make something with taste. She veered toward the pond not far from camp in eager search of those herbs. At the water’s edge, she was relieved when the rain let up just enough that it wasn’t painful to stand beneath. She could almost see beneath the pond’s surface. Still, she hurried to pick some spindleweed—though no such luck with the lotus—and then set to washing the mushrooms in the water, crouching just at the edge.

The methodical movements of rinsing and setting her bounty along her spread cloak sent her mind spiralling back to Solas. Had she scared him earlier? Did he think she had bound herself to his fate? It wasn’t like she had done something as twisted as the Grey Wardens, binding a spirit—or demon—to herself. And it hadn’t been _her_ choice. Shan’shala had found a loophole and made the choice for her. Save the world and save Pride. Same bloody path she’d been on for years. 

_You change everything_. 

Impassioned. The words were like a slap to the face. Her hands stilled just thinking about it. One moment he had looked like he might yell or run off…but then he didn’t. What did he mean? Everything? His mind? His heart? _What?_ Had he made up his mind about _her_? Them? The world?

Or had he said it in a moment of delirium? They were starving—dehydrated, despite the rain. He was catching the beginnings of a cold. Would he have said those words if they were warm and safe in Val Royeaux?

Her shaking fingers destroyed an elfroot, tearing it in two on accident. She tossed it to the side and reached for another.

And before that, he’d said something about trust. There had been a semblance of it since that day they’d first shapeshifted. _Yin and the others are changing him, showing him that there is good and light in this world._

_Changing the Dread Wolf’s mind._ His heart was a different thing altogether. _You may have snared the Dread Wolf’s heart, but even that is not enough,_ the demon’s voice reminded her. She wanted to scream. She struck the surface of the water instead, then snatched up her waterskin to fill it. No, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She would continue as she had. 

Solas’ words kept running through her head. The blue fire in his eyes, the determined set to his face—if the Venatori hadn’t interrupted, he would have kissed her. _He_ had reached for _her_ this time. 

She shut her eyes, ducking her head between her knees. A deep breath and she continued her task. But not for long. Her heart leaped when she glimpsed a familiar figure separate from the trees on the other side of the pond. She was almost done with her sorting and cleaning, too. But…Solas was empty handed. Disappointment settled in her gut. 

“Nothing to be found in these woods? I was even beginning to consider that nug,” she said as he took languid steps around the pond.

“I would not say that.” She wasn’t sure if he had meant for that to come off as suggestive, but the delivery was much too serious. She gestured to her bounty irritably and tossed the last soggy hedgehog onto the cloak.

“Wonderful, then you can meet me back at camp. Or help me finish up here.” She quickly divided up the remaining elfroot and reached up to hand him a bundle. When he didn’t take it, she raised her eyes—and never made it to his face.

There was a wound in his thigh. A very bloody one. 

A cold sweat broke over her at the same time that her blood froze. She cleared her throat and got slowly to her feet, still holding out the bundle. But her hope was in vain. It always was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys wanna know what would have happened if they chose to kill the imitator? Or if they had killed both of them? (whaaat, it's like choose your own adventure! And guess what, if you like one of the other outcomes, it doesn't have to be AU to the canon! It's your choice! :D)
> 
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> [1\. [Kill the suspected imitator]](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/185568885192/1-kill-the-imitator)
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> [2\. [Kill them both]](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/185568919362/2-kill-them-both)
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> Another side note:  
>  _Look, I'm sorry this one was short, I've been spoiling you (as you deserve) with big chapters, but I had no choice. 'Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain.' -Solas_  
>  But Solas made me do it.


	80. The Dread Wolf & She & the Devil Make Tea

Eyes like a cruel winter watched her as a cat watched a bird. His lips curled into an unnatural smile.

“I wonder if I should kill you here and now,” it said with Solas’ mouth and Solas’ voice, “Or wait for him to negotiate. Your life for my freedom.” 

“Do you not know his—your own mind? The answer?” Solas tilted his head, still holding that ominous smile.

“I need only kill you to break him,” he said and he spoke so softly. “It will be easy then.” The tension in the air was stretched so taut she thought it might shatter with her next breath.

She turned and bolted. Before she could Fade step away, he was upon her in two strides. 

“SOLAS!” she screamed as they fell. The one on top of her struck her in the head and scrambled up to straddle her. Somehow through the daze she managed to reach behind her back, unsheathing her blade and swinging it up at his throat. Solas leaned out of the way and caught her wrist before she could recover and slammed it to the ground, jarring the blade from her grip. With her free fist, she lashed out with a tongue of fire that caught him across the eyes. He cried out and whipped to the side, allowing her to twist and squirm out from beneath him. Once on her feet, she cast the strongest Blizzard spell she could muster. In her desperation to get away however, she was caught in the spell. Her limbs and magic grew cold, then slowed, but she was just feet from the edge of the spell. With a scream, she hurled herself from it and turned to make sure Solas hadn’t followed.

He was nowhere to be seen.

She spun in a frantic circle, hands raised and glowing with magic—then promptly got a shoulder in the gut as he materialised seemingly from nowhere and tackled her. She tried to shock him with lightning through his back when her own hit a solid surface—and then they were sinking into a freezing, airless void. She was forced to release the lightning. Meanwhile, his arms had untangled from her body and she felt hands close around her throat. The murk lit briefly around them as the impostor cast, eyes glowing bright green underwater. Dirthamen’s magic invaded her senses and easily sought out her furious aura, latching on like a leech. _Not again!_ Solas’ fingers constricted around her throat as his magic sapped her dry as a tomb. The shock of it caused her to inhale what felt like a lungful of water. In a frenzied need for air, she kicked out wildly and by sheer luck landed a blow that loosened his grip _just_ enough. She clawed upward and breached the surface with an ugly gasp, not drawing nearly enough air before the imitator was upon her again. His efforts to drag her back down were aided by her breastplate. For a moment, she thought he would try drowning her again but a strong arm wrapped around her neck and lifted, keeping her neck just above the water—she scratched behind her head like a cat and might have caught his cheek or an eye, but he didn’t let go as though impervious to pain. 

“There we are,” Solas hissed in her ear as a vicious snarl ripped from the shore and she realised why he had waited to kill her. The wolf landed on top of them both, breaking the impostor’s grip. And just like with Decimus, Solas dropped his form in favour of using his hands. There was a struggle of splashing and shouting as they fought. She tried to get away while keeping above the water, coughing and choking—desperate for air. There was no way she would be able to tell the difference between them and aid the right man. But then, “You delay the inevitable!” was all she heard before a body landed on top of her and she was sinking again. Something glanced across the metal at her chest and she glimpsed the shine of her dagger arcing upward—a flash of iridescent magic illuminated the entirety of the pond and before it faded she saw a cloud of crimson blooming in the water. Mere seconds later, hands fisted in the straps at her shoulders and lifted her up. All she could do when air hit her face was gasp and sputter and hope it wasn’t the wrong Solas. When no hands or blade rent her face or throat, she blinked the water from her eyes and threw her arms around his shoulders at the same time that he clutched her to him, burying his face in her neck with a ragged noise. For seconds all she could do was draw great heaving breaths of air into her lungs, shaking violently in his arms. From the cold rage and the raging cold permeating her body.

“He stole my bloody magic. _Again_ ,” she spat, then pressed her mouth into his shoulder, letting loose a furious, shapeless cry. 

“Mine as well,” Solas said in a gravelly voice. He sounded like he’d been punched in the throat. “Most of it.” Silence in all but the rain fell about them. He let out a wet laugh, arms tightening around her. “You are determined to be lost from me.”

“Only…” she swallowed— _oh, she was so angry with herself. Useless guardian!_ “Only if it means keeping you from harm. I know…I know I failed this time but it won’t happen again. I swear it.”

“You cannot keep this up forever,” he whispered.

“Maybe not, but I will try,” she paused, remembering the impostor’s last words. Solas hummed his amusement that she felt in her own chest through her armour. “He was right—the inevitable is delayed, for now.” She pulled away to see a stricken expression on his face. There was a small cut across his cheek that didn’t have a chance to bleed with the rain washing it away. He gave a small wince when she pressed her finger against it. “I’m going to die of hypothermia if we stay in this water. And you of a pathetic cold.” Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably by then. He wasn’t much better off.

“The shelter,” he decided. Still holding her, he swam-waded toward the shore until they reached a spot where she could touch the bottom again. Weakened, she fell to all fours in the muddy shallows feeling like she weighed as much as a druffalo. Solas knelt beside her and with fingers wrinkled by the water, he coaxed the straps of her breastplate free until it landed in the mud with a sound smack. He gathered it over his arm before she could grab it and pulled her up by the waist with his other. “Just a little farther.” She nodded and forced her jellied legs to carry her up the incline and back into the forest where the leanto stood. In all its crudeness, it could have been a plush Orlesian bed for all she cared. Solas tossed her dagger into the ground in a corner and dropped her breastplate with a soft clink before sitting heavily on the moss himself. She joined him with a groan. The worst of the pain was dulled by the cold, but she knew she would be hurting come morning. 

“My cloak is…” he trailed off, gesturing behind him vaguely while he took up coughing again. She reached for the dark mass of fabric and was relieved to find it dry. “I do not have enough strength for a spell to dry our clothes, I’m afraid.” She held the cloak bunched in her hands and glanced between them in their sorry wet state. Reluctantly, she reached down and peeled her shirt off.

“Yours too,” she said when he avoided looking at her. She wrung hers out as best as she could and then hung it from a nub on one of the supporting branches. When she looked back at him he was doing the same with his coat and undershirt-sweater thing. When he was done, she drew close to him and tossed the cloak over them both. They huddled together side by side, shivering. 

“Did you see any sign of your imitator?” he asked without looking at her. It was the last thing she wanted to think about.

“No.” 

“Tomorrow, if you have the strength, fly as far as you can,” he said. “It is the only way we may be able to tell if you are still bound here.”

“And if I am?” 

“I will not leave you here, if that is what you are concerned for.” She twisted the end of her braid, shuddering when a stream of icy water escaped down her chest. She stiffened when he reached an arm around her, but the measly heat transferred better so she didn’t complain. She wouldn’t have anyway.

“I am worried about your cough getting worse. And for the others. We have no idea what became of them,” she said, ducking her head under the cloak in hopes of warming her face. She wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself as small as possible beside him. 

“Worry about ourselves first. We cannot be of any help if we are dead.” Then there was quiet. The rain. Skin on skin. A small cough to her left. Her eyelids threatened mutiny.

“I lost my mushrooms and my elfroot. I was going to make you tea, somehow.”

“I detest tea.”

“Not everything can taste like sweet cake.” 

“I think I shall devise a spell for that,” he mused.

“Cake-flavoured tea?” He snorted. “I have also heard of tea baked into cake.”

“It sounds like an abomination,” he said, leaning forward to rub warmth into his legs. 

“This rain is an abomination,” she grunted and rolled over onto her side, still under the cloak. “If I do not wake in the morning, it is because I have expired from this wretched cold.” Her body went taut as a bowstring when Solas shifted beside her and her overactive, wound up mind instantly began panicking like a cornered mouse—except all he did was lower himself to the ground and press his bare back to hers. She planted her face in the crook of her arm, cheeks stinging. _Delavir shem’telsila._

“I would caution against crossing into the Fade tonight.” She had never felt his voice so closely before. It tickled beneath her ribs and vibrated into the space between her lungs. She fascinated herself so deeply with the sensation of his sound, she failed to notice that his head was also pressed against the back of hers until he turned a little to look up at the fern-roof. “It may be dangerous, weakened as you are.” 

“I will not recover my mana, if I do not,” she mumbled, half asleep. Fingers skittered across her hip, jolting her somewhat out of her delirium. There was a panicked air about him that caused her to turn her head out of concern.

“Please,” he said. “You may not return. A body needs a spirit to keep it…” She almost laughed.

“Alive?” He nodded, more or less. She was too tired to try recalling the reasons behind that. It was more surprising that of all people to warn her _against_ the Fade, it was him. She should probably listen, tempting as it was to slip into a warm dream. And she was ice. She tried to push away the disappointment of not escaping to the Fade and instead focused on the contact between them. Solas was warm. Enviably warm. Somehow. 

His fingers twitched on her hip and she realised he was waiting for an answer.

“I…yes, I understand,” she said. He relaxed. She couldn’t help reaching over her shoulder to give his a squeeze. The gesture at least got him to remove his damnable fingers. He returned the touch lightly, then lowered his hand. She was relieved when in the next blink of her eyes, merciful blackness swallowed her like a wolf, cutting off all other thought. 

  
\------------------- 

When she woke with a start the following morning, it was beneath a pile of ferns. Apparently the wind and rain had toppled the leanto onto them while they’d been sleeping like the dead. Their bodies had shifted in their sleep as well. Her left arm—now completely numb—was trapped beneath his neck and her right was strewn across his waist while one of his _firm_ legs was tucked in the crook of her knees. And though there was a spear of fern covering his face, his chin was pressing into her left eye. She could feel his breaths on her forehead and now her face was burning. This was so much worse— _oh so much worse._ Waking up to a bear would have been better.

Because now she knew that while unconscious, her exhausted, freezing body would seek heat like a lizard. Solas might have been the most elegant sleeper she’d ever seen but he was disturbingly malleable while he slumbered.

She groaned as she became familiarised with the newly earned aches and pains of the day. _Everything hurts. Void take me._ She forced herself to roll away with a rustling of foliage that itched her clammy skin. She immediately missed the warmth, but it was for the best. The rain had gone back to a drizzle and Solas’ cloak was uncomfortably wet anyway. 

While she was rubbing her arm to try and get the circulation to return, she heard a sharp breath beside her followed by a choking noise as he inhaled a frill of fern. Solas shot bolt upright, spitting dirt and leaf from his mouth, following it all up with a violent cough. This time, her hand found his back in concern. 

“This is horrible,” he said, his voice now low and nasally. He dropped his head into his hands with a miserable groan. She shuffled around in the wreckage of their fort and fished out his sweater that was now only damp. She went to reach for her magic and cursed, drawing his attention.

“I do not have enough strength to shift,” she said. “No offence, but I would delight in kicking your other self in his…stupid…pretty… _ugh._ ” She threw the sweater at his face so he couldn’t see her red cheeks. She heard a small laugh beneath it and almost kicked him while he was momentarily robbed of sight.

“None taken. I would gladly do the same. I did not recover much of my own strength,” he said, pulling it on over his head. Maordrid thrust a hand into the layer of green, searching around for their other belongings. Something wet hit the back of her head and she realised he’d returned the favour. She shuddered when she pulled the miserable cold cloth back on. She recovered the transcript next, checking that its wards were still intact before securing it at her side with Dirthamen’s buckler.

“That means not flying ahead to test my boundaries,” she said, dumping water from her breastplate so she could buckle herself in. “And staying out in this awful weather even longer.” Her stomach voiced its dissent loudly. “Maybe some of the mushrooms survived! Yes, I will be back. Or…find me when you are ready.” She threw her boots over her shoulder and began stalking away in direction of the pond when his voice—made hollow by the sick—called out.

“If you run into yourself—”

She kicked the soggy ground. Seconds later, Solas shuffled up beside her, sniffling and looking downright miserable. He gave her a nod and she proceeded into the forest. 

At the water’s edge, she was relieved to find that even though the rain had battered some of the little yellow hedgehogs into soggy chunks, ten had survived mostly intact. One of the elfroots remained as well, though the others had apparently been caught in her Blizzard spell and exploded upon thawing. She gave it to Solas who took it without protest. One by one she cooked the mushrooms as best she could with magic on a flat stone. Underneath a sad fir tree, they huddled and chewed their fungus in silence.

Minutes later, they were walking again and this time hopefully in the right direction. 

Three hours into the hike, she reached a decision and stopped Solas.

“I want you to leave me.” His face said he didn’t take her seriously in the slightest. “You are free now. And you said you did not lose your strength like I did…you could shift and be in Val Royeaux by tomorrow morning, maybe earlier. Find the others and—” Solas started laughing. It sounded a little hysterical with the cold clogging up his throat and sinuses.

“Patience, _amelan_ ,” he said. “ _Listen. Feel.”_ She tried to level him with a doubtful stare but it was ineffective. She’d never met someone who could look so serene and smug at the same time. She frowned and closed her eyes, honing in. _The rain still sighs with the wind. The trees are constantly whining like irritable elderly about their joints. And…something else. Creaking, but it isn’t like the boughs. Too consistent—_ “Now tell me what you smell.” She peeked an eye open, then shut it again and breathed in.

“Petrichor. The waxy headiness of oaks. Those grasses that smell like piss when they are wet. But beyond that, the honey of winter hydrangeas? And—” she paused, turning her body with her nose, “—woodsmoke?” It changed and was replaced by the smell of sweet pines and the pure, clarifying scent of magical ozone mixed in with wet cotton. “And you.” His hand found hers and then he was guiding her through the trees. His feet were hurried, excited. 

Suddenly, they emerged onto an escarpment. Directly below she saw a live smokestack on a mossy roof, a waterwheel—the source of the creaking—and beyond that, the winding Imperial Highway—the petrichor. A relieved laugh fell from her lips and she barely noticed when Solas kissed the side of her head and squeezed her shoulders.

“ _We_ are free,” he said and his words were sweeter than any pine or honeyed hydrangeas.

The two of them managed to climb down the escarpment without breaking any limbs. They gave up trying to approach the little woodland cottage when a mabari on a chain attempted to bite Solas’ leg after they tried to get close, luckily only tearing his cloak when she yanked him out of the way.

“What an unpleasant creature,” he said, casting an annoyed glance over his shoulder as they carried on. She laughed.

“The poor thing is likely chained to that tree in all manner of weather. It is not his fault for being irritable,” she said.

“This is coming from the woman who loves dragons, the very beasts that would not think twice about eating you.” Brows lifting, she gave him a sly grin.

“Do not forget my current company.” She sauntered past him when he slowed.

“A compliment or an insult, I wonder?” She was feeling too cocky to answer. Within an hour they made it to the Highway. Once there, they took a minute just to stand on the hard-packed dirt and stare into nothingness despite the fine drizzle. Not far down the road was a bridge over one of the rivers feeding into the Waking Sea. There appeared to be a sign post set just before it. When they finally reached it, she sighed.

  


**[Val Royeaux - 26 Leagues]**

“That is…four days in this weather? _If_ we can shapeshift,” she said. Solas was looking the opposite direction.

“Yes. And backtracking to the city of Val Foret would not be worth it,” he said. She blinked water from her eyes when she looked up at the sky.

“If we are to travel the road that means being discreet with our magic. Or we return to the forest and wait until we regain our strength.” Solas nodded thoughtfully, then started coughing again. “The next homestead we find I am trading some of this cursed gold we have for tea.” Solas laughed.

“If only gold made it taste better,” he said. She rolled her eyes and set off across the bridge with Solas at her side.

——————————

Sufficiently starved and deprived of good sleep, their ability to recover their strength in magic was significantly hindered. Though they were powerful and skilled, even they had their limits. Despite her attempts to keep him warm with what little magic she could muster, Solas only got sicker and ever more frustrated by it. He became disagreeable to all of her suggestions and even refused to move from their camp as though thinking he could just wait out the sickness if he sat long enough. Part of his irritability was definitely attributed to his disbelief that he had contracted a disease that only lowly mortals carried. Of course, he didn’t outright say that. Instead, he went straight for an insult. He dared to blame _her_ as though she had something to do with his poor health. He also went so far as to mock her intelligence: _‘you must have picked poisonous mushrooms’_ and _‘the water we have been drinking must be contaminated!’_. Because _she_ was definitely forcing him to consume things against his will. 

Sick and Travel-Weary Solas didn’t think very clearly. His usually-polite filter stopped working and bits of his flawed perspective on the world occasionally flew out. She figured the sickness was impeding his ability to hear because one time she heard him mumble about tearing the Veil down and vowing to end the virus with the Fade’s hellfire. There might have been mention of Ghilan’nain being responsible for its existence. _Something-something wretched she-who-copulates-with-monsters—incoherent threat._

Then the cycle would begin again. Another hurtful thing to come out of his mouth was that he preferred the Fade to her company all of a sudden. _Priggish…ungrateful prick!_ She put distance between them in order to hide the angry tears in her eyes.

After she calmed down some, she decided she was done putting up with it. Maybe it was petty, but he wasn’t the only one in a foul mood. She ignored him and stopped her doting. She began making bets with imagined companions as to how long it would take for him to tamp down his pride enough to realise just how much her interventions had been helping to alleviate his discomfort. She imagined Varric would put it at late the next night. Dorian at three-quarters of the current day—with some inappropriate remark about make-up sex—and Iron Bull underbidding him by four hours. Sera would bet a thousand years and add something about him spending the next hundred after that brooding about it, but never actually getting around to apologising. Blackwall might bid at four hours with Bull, but then Dhrui would come in and somehow nail the time and take all the winnings. Dhrui was the only bet she couldn’t predict.

Solas lasted all night and into the next day, though they didn’t leave the cover of their camp until noon. She continued to ignore him and settled on being even more passive aggressive. When he asked her questions, she conveniently didn’t hear him the first time and innocently requested that he repeat himself each time. When she answered, she did so loudly enough that he winced visibly. He slipped in the mud once and fell. She pretended to reach out to help him to his feet but picked up her waterskin he’d been holding onto since the forest and continued walking.

They ignored each other. _Stubbornly._

They ended up stopping early _again_ because Solas was practically dead on his feet. By then he was battling a low grade fever, his cough, and her own pigheadedness. It didn’t help that she had a headache mounting from lack of food. While she’d been patiently ignoring him, she’d acquired some useful herbs in the forest off the Highway for when he pulled his head out of his ass long enough to apologise to her. Either way, the herbs were useless until they could access proper cookware. She thought Varric—and maybe Dhrui—might win the bet. 

“I tire of your childish antics, Maordrid,” he snapped when he _just_ couldn’t seem to find the brooch to hold his cloak at his neck. “You are behaving like Sera.”

“If you want me to be like her, I could fill your moccasins with mud and move your body into a tree while you are asleep,” she said, casually picking dirt out from beneath her nails with her dagger. “That would also mean no longer being your friend.”

“You are certainly not acting like I am your friend,” he said, sounding both injured and angry. It pained her to hear him like that, but her own damn feelings were hurt. That, and she was pissed. “No, you are right, you are not acting like Sera…you are being worse than her. You are being cruel.” Maori cast her head back and laughed.

“Do you hear yourself talking sometimes? Or…or wait, is that all you hear? So in love with your beautiful voice you cannot hear anyone else when they speak up? Because _you_ think you know best.” Her nose wrinkled with her sneer, digging her knife beneath her nail with increasing force. _Commence the argument with double meanings!_

“More than often, I do!” he exclaimed. “Precious few deign to listen and far more choose wilful ignorance simply because it is easier to let someone else do the thinking for them! Chantry or otherwise!” It was funny how quickly they dove right into the belly of the beast—the guilt and the secrets. With her ‘foresight’, it was playing dirty and she knew it would come back to bite her somewhere unpleasant. But she had never claimed to be wise.

“Have you ever considered that despite your knowledge, you might not have the wisdom you think you do?” His eyes widened then narrowed in anger, but she wasn’t taking her words back. “For all that you claim to know, you demonstrate your own strain of ignorance at times. Or am I mistaking that for your pride?” 

“And I suppose you know better, Maordrid? Do _you_ have the answers? The solutions to all of our known problems?” She leaned back on her log, resting the tip of the dagger on her thigh as she looked at him down her nose. 

“Even if I did, you would not listen.” He hadn’t listened to anyone in the other timeline. Why would he now? Because of _him_ she had to keep up this damned facade of being something else. She became painfully aware of the sudden quiet between them and realised she was probably not the only one thinking about condemning ‘secrets’. 

“What would you suggest then?” She didn’t care for his mocking tone. Nor did she care when he started coughing again. 

“How about we list the things you do not want to do?” she said conversationally, deciding to retreat back to the present. He glared at her, saying nothing. “Excellent, something we agree on. Let’s see…you do not want to ask for help. You do not want tea because it tastes bad. You do not want to ask a couple of humans for a _pot_ to use to boil some water because they _might_ try to run us off. You do not want to even _move_ despite knowing that the bloody weather isn’t helping your cold. Also, do not forget that you actually blamed _me_ for your getting sick. Have I missed anything?” 

“No. Your eloquence has conveyed your naivete quite well.” She bristled and refrained from throwing a pinecone at his head.

“Pompous _ass_ ,” she hissed. 

“And thus you have proved my point.” He rested his head against the tree he was sitting by, mumbling in elven.

“What am I even doing? I do not have to listen to you. I will be back. There is a bloody house up that road and I intend to make it before it is black out,” she said with a scoff, getting to her feet. 

“Wait.” She stopped, but she _really_ wanted to go. Make him think about his poor choices. “Maori, please.” Now he was back to the nickname. Either he was baiting her or maybe finally feeling a little bit of remorse. “Come here.” 

“I am feeling very cross with you right now,” she said, but walked over and crouched before him. He sat up with a wince to look her in the eye.

“We…have both been unfair to one another,” he started and judging by his tight expression, the words weren’t going to come easy. Because of course he wouldn’t want to admit to being wrong or that he had been behaving like an utter cock. “And while the barbs have been coated with poison, they are not lacking in truth.”

“Except the part where you accused me of poisoning you.” His glare had more weariness in it than actual anger. “And the Fade part. That hurt.” He looked down at his hands. 

“Yes, I suppose—no, I _was_ wrong. I am sorry. You were right…I have been…” he hesitated. “An ass.” She smiled, only a little. A tiny triumph because he had apologised through gritted teeth. But it was probably the best apology she was going to get for now.

“Then maybe I am sorry for saying what I did about your voice. Unless of course you really do enjoy the sound of it, but I thought that might be more Dorian’s thing.” Solas rolled his eyes. “I have been complimenting you too much lately. It’s gone to your head.” 

“Each one you have paid me is a treasure,” he said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. _The touch. The bastard knows._ “Such compliments aside, I value your friendship far more. The Fade cannot replace your company. I am sorry for causing you pain when you have only tried relieving me of my own.” She refrained from touching him herself. It was hard, but she managed. Someone had to have discipline around here.

“Will you come with me then? There may be a dry stable to sleep in tonight if you can muster the strength to move.” His expression soured a little. It was like trying to appeal to a sullen child. Except she had zero experience with such creatures. If he didn’t agree, she was going to throw him over her shoulders.

“I know what you are thinking,” he muttered. “You would not dare.”

“Are you sure I wouldn’t?” He gave a long suffering sigh.

“You would. You are an utter terror.” She grinned and helped him to his feet. She gave him his brooch back. 

It was not a crawling pace as the time when he’d been wounded, but they were still not making very good progress. A humble farmstead came into view in time. There was a single cottage built of rough river rocks and simple thatching. The barn behind it looked better cared for. With the winter coming, the garden beds were barren save for some hardy squash and potato plants. The smell of livestock hit them full in the face once they reached the crude stone wall surrounding the home. She hastily removed her chestpiece while they were still out of view and shoved it into his hands.

“Don’t want them thinking I am a soldier,” she explained, then grabbed Solas by the shoulders and sat him down on a piece of firewood left abandoned by the rusty gate. “Stay here.”

“I am not a _dog.”_

“I am going to refrain from making a bad joke.”

“Yes, please spare me your merry japes.” She tweaked his chin and passed through the gate before he could explode again. There were no angry mabari this time. But when she got closer to the cottage, she heard several voices. A paned window surrounded by morning glory vines gave her some view of the inside. With the encroaching twilight, she doubted anyone saw her from inside. She counted at least four figures moving within by light of some candles and lanterns. The smell of well-seasoned food made her stomach sound a lot like a pissed off Dread Wolf.

Maori pushed her hood down and rapped lightly on the worn door that fit poorly in its frame. Kind of like sweet, gangly Cole in his silly hat.

The door swung open and a bright lantern shined in her eyes. Squinting, she offered a fake smile at the white-bearded farmer that glared down at her.

“Wot the—where’d ya come from, elf?” the man demanded in a distinct Ferelden accent. “Din’t see yas from the window.”

“Er…I…my name is Shiral. My friend and I were travelling to the capital when he came down with sick—”

“Don’t care for who yas are or what yer business is.” Maori froze, lips parted. The man didn’t move.

“Would you accept a trade of gold for use of your barn for the night? And a pot to boil some water?” she hedged, reaching into the pouch she’d taken from Solas. As soon as her hand disappeared behind her cloak, she found a very lovingly sharpened axe at her throat. She decided to stop moving. 

“Gold and pretty jewels ain’t of any use out here. We get by just fine on our own,” the farmer growled. 

“Are you having troubles with strangers lately, Ser?” she asked in a carefully neutral voice. “If so, I could rid you of them—no strings attached. Just…your barn and a pot.” The axe didn’t move. _Please don’t let Solas see this. Please._

Too late, her ears picked up the sound of the gate creaking slowly. 

“I’ll be usin’ a thick string to noose you up with if you don’t run along,.” The man noticed Solas coming up the path and grunted, tightening his grip on the axe. “Stay right there, knife ear.” 

“Walls? Who’s at the door?” a voice called from inside.

“You’ve a family?” she asked, leaning to the side. The axe nicked her throat when the man stiffened and stepped outside, slamming the door. “You want to protect them, I understand. We have all fallen on hard times with the wars and outlaws—”

“I’ve heard it all afore. Sob stories and promises of a better world if me and mine make a tiny contribution,” the old man continued, then he was cut off by the door opening behind them. She looked up to see a younger version of the old farmer, but greasier and smelling like he hadn’t washed in a month. He had a bow nocked with an arrow.

“Ay, you’re gonna turn this little fox away?” the newcomer asked, lowering his weapon. “C’mon, you grump. You forget what it’s like to have a woman around?” 

“She could be one of them V…Vendori witches for all we know!” the farmer failed to whisper. The greasy one picked at his scalp, squinting at her in the dying light.

“Heard y’say you had gold, aye?” he asked her. ‘Walls’ jabbed the man warningly in the arm but the younger fellow waved a hand at him, still looking at her.

“It is yours if I can borrow…or buy a pot.” She slowly reached into the pouch and removed a few pieces of said treasure. She noted how both mens’ eyes widened with unmistakable desire. A nice sized ruby had made it into the pile.

“I don’t know ‘bout you Wallace, but with that I could get me a new sword, scabbard, bow, a _horse_ —” While the two men bickered, Solas took the chance to reach her.

_“This is unwise. We should leave,”_ he murmured. Her eyes never left the men, even when she felt his fingertips touch the small cut at her throat. There was something off about the whole situation that the spy in her _needed_ to piece together. The Inquisitor would investigate, especially for people in need. And people could be stubborn to ask for help. She wasn’t sure about these men, though.

 _“I am getting somewhere, just wait,”_ she whispered back. Solas made a small noise in the back of his throat that caused him to cough. The grubby men took notice at once.

“Oi, I don’t want to catch no wild elf fever!” Wallace threatened. The other man yanked the axe from white-beard’s hand. 

“You don’t need to get near him. Hey, little fox, I got a pot for you. Come on in. But he’s gotta stay out.” She went to go but Solas pulled her back, fingers tightening like a vice at her elbow.

“ _Vh—no_ , please don’t go,” Solas hissed. She blinked at him in confusion. Did she hear…? 

“Are you interested in a trade or what, elf?” She looked back at him to say yes, but Solas stepped up. The man immediately raised his bow at him.

“Why does she need to go with _you_? Can you not bring it out?” Solas demanded. The man scowled at him.

“’Cause I’m gonna make sure none of this gold is counterfeit and I don’t want her runnin’ off with my cookware,” he said. “It’s hard to come by way out here.”

_“All of this for a pot,”_ Solas whispered rapidly. _“It is not worth it.”_

_“We are desperate. But besides that, there is something else going on,”_ she said. 

“Stop talkin’ in gibberish! Is it a deal or not?” 

“Yes, it absolutely is,” she answered and walked from Solas’ grip. Wallace stepped to the side to allow her by, snatching his axe back from the other man. They both smelled of sour body odour and old cheese. ‘Barter’ held his hand out—she placed five of the ancient Elvhen coinage in his palm with the ruby Solas had scrounged, keeping the rest for themselves. _Most expensive pot in Thedas._ Sausage fingers closed around them and he jerked his head toward the door, shooting one last wary look at Solas before walking inside. She didn’t look back. Wallace remained at the door, presumably still matching the Dread Wolf’s glare obstinately.

The interior was quaint. Herbs in neat little bottles sat on shelves around every window, potted plants hung from one or two support beams, and there were a few simple but vibrant rugs made of what looked to have been repurposed stockings. There was a homely hearth around a painted wooden divider separating the front door from the living space. A round iron-strapped tub filled with water sat abandoned beside the fire. The other two figures she’d seen from outside were gathered before it—the source of the delicious smells. At least it masked the stench of unwashed human bodies. But unless the cottage had a hidden space beyond what she could see, there was no way four grown men were sharing the place. Not unless the barn was being utilised as a living space.

‘Barter’ led her to a small round table where he pointed her to a chair that she did not take. He set her offerings on the table and then went to grab a single black pot from off a hook on the wall. He set it down across from the gold and picked up one of the coins that had its centre punched out, holding it before his eyes. Her own were fixed on a suspiciously dark stain on the wood of the table.

“This isn’t any specie I’ve ever seen,” he said. _Interesting terminology for a farmer,_ she noted, also catching eye of the buckle on his belt. Although worn, it was in shape of a serpent.

“It is ancient Elvhen currency,” she said, moving her gaze to meet his, “Though no country may use it any longer, you will find no purer gold.”

“And where did you happen across this rarity?” 

“You think to seek more out yourself? Would you believe me if I said the place it came from was destroyed?” Barter looked at her with eyes too intelligent to belong to the man who’d been at the door earlier. “Besides, that was not part of this exchange.” The man huffed and dug into a pouch at his belt where he withdrew what looked like a lodestone. _Why on earth would a farmer have a lodestone?_

He held it in his hand and seemed to weigh her in his eyes. Even though she knew her claim was solid, she still felt a pang of apprehension when he positioned it over the gold. True to her word, the coins didn’t even twitch. 

“You two done with yer damn flirtin, Tulls?” Wallace called from the door. “This damn elf out here is askin’ for an axe and I’m about to give it to him.” Her eyes flitted to the man called Tulls.

“Is that short for Tullius?” she asked conversationally. Tulls grabbed the pot and handed to her.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop asking questions and head right back down that road. Take the damn pot,” he sneered.

“Yessir. Thank you again.” She bowed deeply and cautiously made her way back to the exit, keeping light on her feet. At the door, she saw Solas still standing where she’d left him. When his eyes found her she felt like she could see a hundred rough years being tacked onto his lifespan. Or maybe a hundred had been taken off of it, but who could say with the future.

She jerked her head for him to follow though she knew he probably didn’t need prompting. They walked in complete silence down the road. Dusk had fallen by then. 

Once the front door was out of sight and she heard the door slam shut, she immediately turned on her heel and started walking back. 

“What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “They made their wishes _quite_ clear!” She stopped and spun on him so abruptly that he ran into her.

“They’re from Tevinter,” she said and his faintly glowing eyes lifted to stare back down the road. “Tulls was short for Tullius. He had a belt buckle in shape of a _dragon_. Four men to a cute cottage in the middle of Orlais. Pretty sure I saw dried blood on a table.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I would commend your attention to finer details,” he whispered, quickly covering his mouth against a cough. “But neither of us are fit to fight. What could you possibly intend to do now?”

“Sneak into the barn. If we are lucky, I make you the tea you deserve. And then I will find out what happened to the original owner of this place. What if they are still alive?” she asked, curling her fingers into the cloak at his chest. He sighed miserably, pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes.

“What if it all goes horribly wrong?”

“What if it doesn’t? What if there is food? If I do not eat something, you will be carrying or more likely dragging me all the way to Val Royeaux. I would rather use what remaining strength I have to secure us a chance for recovery,” she said. “Remember that time we brought flowers to Senna’s grave in the Hinterlands?”

“Yes.”

“Was that necessary?” 

“No, but—”

“We could do a good thing here, Solas.” She could see the struggle on his face. He was so tired, so worn. And all she wanted to do was take care of him so _why did he have to be so difficult._

“All right.” She smiled and reached up to smooth her thumbs across his sinuses. It seemed to give him a little relief, by sound of the small groan he let out and the fluttering of his eyelashes. 

“Keep low and follow me,” she whispered, taking her hands back. He nodded and together they slinked back up the muddy road in the shadows. The cottage was set on a slight incline up against a forested hill. Behind the barn, a thin margin of forest had been cleared away for animals to go during the day. She led Solas behind the house and into the trees at the bottom of the hill where they had a direct view into a window of the cottage. The men were gathered around the small table indulging in their food by light of a lantern now. She could make out faint conversation and saw the glint of gold as they passed Dirthamen’s treasure around while they ate. 

“I never thought I would go through so much trouble for tea,” Solas remarked beside her.

“An elfroot-spindleweed-embrium decoction will burn away your cold like dragon’s breath,” she said. He sneezed and she all but jumped out of her skin. “Try not to do that.”

“Yes, truly sorry that my current state of health is inconveniencing _you_.” She didn’t let him get under her skin this time, keeping her eyes peeled for movement outside of the cottage.

“What business do you think Tevinters have in this place?” she wondered aloud. “I have difficulty believing these men decided to settle down as a quaint family in the backcountry of Orlais. They aren’t refugees…”

“Slavers?” Solas said with vitriol.

“Possibly. Though he took interest in _where_ I came by the Elvhen coin,” she said. “If not slavers, then Venatori pretending to be otherwise. And if that is it—”

“They may be a splinter of the group in the marshes,” Solas finished. She nodded.

“More reason to look into this and put a stop to it if need be.” They sat spying amongst the trees, waiting for movement outside. But it seemed like the men were content with staying inside where they were safe from the poor weather. Eventually, the light dimmed to just that of the hearth.

“Time to go,” she said, rousing Solas from where he was dozing against his tree. Together, they descended and hopped the low stone wall where they crossed the garden beds silent as shadows. The doors of the barn were chained shut, but with a little finagling they were able to loosen it just enough to widen the door and slip through. 

There were only six stalls of which four were occupied by horses. That all but confirmed her suspicions. Above the stalls was a loft with a square window open to the forest behind. She urged Solas to climb up while she searched around the bottom for _something_ to eat. 

One of the Tevinters had left his saddlebags hanging on a hook by a stall that she poked through. She almost cried when she found a bruised apple, some strips of jerky, _and_ a waxed paper containing a tiny chunk of cheese. There was also a small pouch of forgotten Tevinter currency. She hastily joined Solas in the loft and split the apple down the middle with her blade, handing him one half with a bit of cheese and jerky. He went to raise the cheese to his mouth, then thought better of it and set it back down in his lap with reluctance.

“What is it?” she asked.

“My throat. I do not want to choke.” He paused, looking at the pot in her hand. “Tea?” She smiled fondly at him and then set to pouring water into it from her waterskin and preparing the wilted herbs she’d gathered much earlier that day. “Do you have enough strength to boil it?” he asked when she conjured a flame and held the pot above it.

“I have been conserving it for this purpose,” she said, a bit abashed. When he said nothing, she glanced at him. He was watching the magic until he saw her looking, then his own gaze wouldn’t leave her face. She quickly focused back on her task. “I know I have been overbearing. I suppose stress makes me more…I don’t know, needing to occupy my mind? To feel useful? I have always needed a purpose.” She let the flame hover so she could use both hands to hold the pot.

“A strength and a flaw,” he said. 

“Lately I think it has been more of the latter. You may never have gotten wounded or sick in the first place if I hadn’t been a fool.”

“We _did_ stop the Venatori from reaching another of our people’s relics,” he sighed, leaning back on the bale of hay he sat upon. “A worthy sacrifice, I think.” They didn’t speak the rest of the time that she brewed the tea. By then he was leaned over with his head resting in his hands, eyes closed. Maori whispered a cooling spell over the steaming pot and carefully poured the liquid into her waterskin before handing it to Solas. Then she climbed onto the bale next to the window and paced herself eating the meagre food. She alternated between looking out of the window and watching Solas painfully swallow down the tea in the dark. She couldn’t see the colour of his skin to judge its effectiveness, but his movements became less agitated and jerky in minutes. When he was finished with the tea, he joined her at the window with his food in hand. Maori reached over and picked up her chestplate where Solas had left it leaning against the hay.

“You know, with what gold we found in that temple we can afford to buy ourselves clean, fitted clothes,” she said, turning the armour over in her hands.

“I am surprised you are not desirous of a hot bath,” he said and she noted clarity returning to his voice. It would be temporary but the effects should last him until Val Royeaux if his immune system was good.

“That too,” she amended. “What about you?”

“If we are speaking of luxuries…a good book and cake in addition to what you already mentioned. And after, an untroubled dream.” She grinned, sliding into her cold armour. When she was done, she leaned back on her hands, staring up at the cloudy sky.

“We sound like Dorian,” she mused.

“I take it all back.” They shared a quiet laugh.

“As of now, I would give the rest of my finger for a lute and my brier,” she said, still looking outside. “Tevinter occupants notwithstanding.” Solas looked at her, chewing slowly on the apple.

“Have you ever written any songs?” What little mirth she had crumbled into ash. He didn’t notice, thankfully.

“One.” _A fond farewell never meant to be permanent._

“I would love to hear it,” he said. Her smile was forced. “You only played for enjoyment, correct?” She nodded. “Why did you stop?” She gave a small, sad laugh. Everything between them would only ever be bittersweet. Their past, present, and future. 

“A story for another time, Solas. I would rather not talk about it now,” she said, scooting to the edge of the bale. “You should rest with what little time we have. I will wake you if anything happens.” 

“ _Ir abelas,_ I did not mean to upset you. Again,” he said, touching her shoulder. She patted his hand.

“I know. _Hamin_ , _Somniari._ ” He shifted beside her, pulling his cloak around him and adjusting his body so that his head was laying by her. It was near instant that his breathing slowed. And now she felt bad, not realising just how much a toll the relentless travel and illness had taken on him. Maybe she pushed him too far— _stop thinking and pay attention to what’s outside._

She obeyed and rose quietly to her feet, coming to stand before the large window. Below was a trampled pasture but no livestock despite the smell. She wondered if the Tevinters had eaten them all, if that was what had given their supper its savoury aroma. The thought of four men slaughtering an entire farm and its owners incensed her. Her eyes fell on a square structure on the other side of the pasture—a pair of old wooden doors sticking out of the ground. They were barred and padlocked shut. There were dark tracks in the grass and mud leading up to them.

She cast her gaze back to Solas’ slumbering form. His hands were laced across his stomach with one leg kicked up, hood drawn across his eyes. She cursed under her breath and resigned herself to giving him some actual time to rest before she did anything investigative.

So she waited and practised still-form meditation on her feet since _vir’elgar’dun_ was out of the question. There was nothing to it but listening and controlling her breaths. Half-consciously, she matched hers to Solas’ just audible over the soft pattering of rain.

_Pt-pt-pt-pt._

_Shhhh…_

_Pt-pt-pt-pt._

_Clink._

_Shhh…_

_Clink-clink._

She tilted an ear toward the noise, keeping her eyes closed still. _Was that a whimper?_ It sounded faintly like crying, but the rain and the wind was drowning out all else. She scowled and opened her eyes. It was definitely coming from the hatch on the other side of the pasture.

She turned from the window, biting her lip out of indecision. If she didn’t go soon, she risked being discovered later when the Vints were more likely to wake and come outside. Staying was more for Solas’ sake. But she had convinced him to come with her out of concern for survivors.

While she was looking at him, something felt off. There was a ringing in her ears that hadn’t been there before. _The rain—it’s stopped. But for how long?_ She peered out of the window one more time and saw that it was still cloudy. Not very, then. 

She afforded him one hour of sleep, counting every minute. Doing so reminded her of her early training in Arlathan with a captain who’d been the most punctual, petty ass-hat she’d ever known. To spite the old captain, she stopped ten seconds early and walked over to kneel beside Solas on the bale. Very carefully, she placed a hand on his, bending in close.

“ _Ir abelas,_ I know it has not been long, but I need you to wake,” she whispered. His chest rose then fell one more time before one of his hands flexed and rose to lift his hood from his face.

“Trouble?” he murmured. 

“Not yet. But there will be,” she said. He rolled his eyes to look up at the sky to check the light. _It’s only been an hour, Solas_. To his credit, he got up and followed her back down the ladder without making a sound. Slipping out of the barn without making noise was a little harder without cover of the rain, but they managed, only taking a little longer to avoid doing so.

“This way,” she said, passing around the side of the barn. On the other side of the pasture, they stood before the double doors and their lock. The sound of metal drawing across stone was clearer now. “There is something down there,” she said in a bare whisper. The clinking stopped.

“Hello?” a weak feminine voice called nearly just as quiet. “Is someone there?” She looked at Solas then knelt before the lock, removing the shovel handle that had been wedged between the bars. 

“Who are you?” Maordrid asked before she started on the padlock. There was a relieved sob that choked off.

“Lara Beauchene,” the delicate Orlesian voice answered. “They killed my husband.” The lock was old, but not weak enough that someone could break it by pushing on the doors enough. 

“Freeze it with me,” she told Solas who nodded and encased it in ice. She clenched her fist and the lock snapped with a clean noise. They waited in silence, listening for movement at the cottage. When she deemed it safe, she removed the chain and opened one of the doors, hustling inside. She considered a magelight but she knew every drop of mana counted. She had her own eyesight anyway.

At the bottom she was hit by the familiar sickly sweet stench of rotting corpses and sour excrement. Shielding her nose against the stench with her cloak, Maori looked around the earthen basement and saw a blond woman in a torn dress sitting with her back to the wall. Her arms were restrained by a single rope fed through a metal ring bound to the wall. Behind her, Solas cursed as he entered.

“You come to hurt me?” Lara asked, legs scuffling against the dirt away from them. Maordrid approached cautiously, avoiding touching what looked like an arm on the ground. 

“No, to free you,” she whispered, taking the rope binding the woman’s hands and sawing it off. When both Lara’s wrists were free, a sob came from her mouth and she threw her arms around Maordrid. “Shh, you need to be quieter.” She stroked the woman’s hair, hoping the motion would calm Lara’s crying. She glanced up at Solas standing in a tense silence, hands clenched as tight as they would go.

“I-I don’t know why they c-came! T-They’ve kept me down h-here for s-so long, taking turns at me,” Lara sobbed, “They’re going back to Tevinter, I heard. I-I can’t go with them! They want to take me to a slave auction, but if I get with child, they’ll…they’ll slit my throat and leave me in the woods.”

“It won’t happen,” Maordrid said firmly, pulling away from her. Lara gritted her teeth, bunching her skirts in bloodied hands. She could see bruises on one side of her face and fingerprints on her neck. 

“I want…I want to see them suffer,” she snarled. “For what they did to my Henry and all our animals.” Maordrid boiled inside, thinking quickly.

“My friend and I are weak from our own journey, dear Lara,” she said as gently as she could. “Under any other circumstances, I would _gladly_ see them pay for what has been done to you. But it is four of them against us. We would be wounded or worse.” Lara seethed in silence, peering down at her hands in the blackness. Outside, she heard the rain starting up again. It would mask any footsteps approaching. “The most I can do is offer you freedom. We are headed to Val Royeaux—you could come with us…”

“At the very least, we could sabotage them,” Solas said, voice dark with anger. “Take the horses—throw a torch in the cottage. With luck, they will burn alive.”

“The only thing that would burn is the thatching and it is wet from the rain,” Lara said. _Or a flash fire spell that neither of us can manage right now._ Maori looked to Solas, feeling helpless.

“Do you have any other family?” she asked. Lara nodded.

“In Val Foret.”

“You cannot stay here. And it would be unwise to return since they know this location,” Solas said. Maori wanted to march right up to the cottage and stab the men in their sleep, but exhausted and hunger-weakened as she was, she knew it could only end poorly. She couldn’t do that to him again.

“I have gold. You can take it and start somewhere anew,” Maori said, taking the pouch she’d stolen and dropping a few gems and gold into it from her own pockets. She pressed it into Lara’s hands. _Please listen to us._ “If not…then…seek out the Inquisition in Val Royeaux. They may be able to help you get justice.” Lara was quiet, considering.

“I will go to my family. And then I will seek my revenge,” the woman vowed. Maori let out a relieved breath and got to her feet, helping Lara to her feet. Walking proved to be difficult for her, understandably. She went slow, letting the woman lean on her as she needed. Solas lingered behind.

_“Elgar’anbanal ghi’myemah ish’ala ea salhasine'din.”_ She heard him finish his curse on the Tevinters, then offer a few small words for the dead before her and Lara passed from earshot. 

“I did not realise you were elves,” Lara said suddenly. “Why would you save a human?”

“Because you are all my people, not just the ones with pointed ears,” Maori said.

“You are brave. More people should think like you,” Lara murmured. Maori smiled. When they reached the front of the barn, the human had her wait by the doors while she dug around in the dirt. After several tense seconds—by then Solas had reappeared—she recovered a key from beneath a stone that she inserted into the lock on the door. Since Solas and Lara were taller, they fed the chain slowly from around the handles and lowered it to the ground before carefully opening the doors. Within, the horses snorted as the cold air flooded their warm stalls. 

“There will be an extra,” Maori pointed out. 

“I could tether him to my horse,” Lara suggested. “If you don’t mind me taking two. I could sell him in the city.”

“I worry that they may not be cooperative. They could be loyal to their riders,” Solas said, raising a hand experimentally to a gelding. The mare shoved her nose into his palm. Maordrid finished saddling an Antivan White that she helped Lara to mount. The woman winced, holding her lower abdomen and leaned forward in the saddle.

“When you are clear of here, make sure you give yourself time to rest,” Maordrid said. “See a healer as soon as possible.” Lara nodded and accepted the rope that Solas had tied to the fourth horse. Lara waited while Maori helped Solas saddle the gelding then hurried to put one on a black Ranger. Before she mounted, Solas’ hand found hers along the saddle. The look in his eyes was enough. _Be careful._

They swung onto their new horses and heeled them as quietly as they could through the yard and onto the road. 

“Ready?” Maori whispered. Lara nodded, visibly scared. “You can do this, Lara.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

“Follow us to the Highway. If you do not think you can go on, you can come with us,” Maordrid said firmly. Lara nodded again, wrapping the reins tightly around her trembling hands. “You go first. We will be right behind you.” 

A light flickered on in the cottage—they were out of time. 

“Go!” she hissed and slapped Lara’s mount on the rump. With two tied together, she was almost afraid the woman might topple but the horses seemed well-trained. The riderless one kept an easy gallop with Lara. There were shouts from inside the cottage. Her and Solas heeled theirs on with a snapping of reins and then they were flying down the muddy road, disappearing into the crying night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please follow this to my most sincerest (and most humble) apology to date](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/185690244752/3-to-all-my-readers)
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> Translations:
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>  **Delavir shem’telsila** : _stupid quick-to-worry/jump to conclusions_ (totally made this up)  
>  **amelan** : _guardian_  
>  **Hamin, Somniari** : _Rest, Dreamer_  
>  **Elgar’anbanal ghi’myemah ish’ala ea salhasine** : " _May the spirits of the Void chase them into madness-death._ " (tried to say: I hope some really awful spirits drive them into madness before meeting death)


	81. Les Miserables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird chapter. Idk.

Maordrid stood at the top of another escarpment hours later. She could just see the Waking Sea from her vantage point, glittering through the rain. Val Royeaux was somewhere to her left.

She held a stone in one hand and a coin in the other. Her finger passed over the hollow in the coin. She shared a lot in common with the little piece of metal in that moment. The stone was just an anchor. 

Lara Beauchene had taken her leave of their company at the junction between her road and the Imperial Highway. Maori had parted with her mostly-useless cloak after discovering that the poor woman was wearing only a shift against the cold. 

She invoked every wrathful force on the men they had fled from. She cursed herself for being too weak to give aid—

“ _Lethallin_.” She hung her head at Solas’ approach. “You must rest.”

“I would if it were possible.” Solas sighed.

“We did what we could for her. It is done.”

“I could have done more,” she insisted. “But I chose not to because one of us would have ended up hurt. And now those monsters are still out there, angrier than ever.” She hurled the rock off the cliff. “They could hurt more people.”

“Yes, they could, though they have not yet repeated the offense. But tonight a woman was given her freedom…and hope,” Solas said. “As for the others, they will likely either head to Val Royeaux or Val Foret. In one of those places, they could be apprehended. It is not much, but we may take a small comfort in knowing that.”

“That is a lot of if’s,” she muttered. “Those cowards will likely keep to the outskirts, preying on those just like the Beauchenes.” He took her by the shoulders and looked in her in the eyes.

“You cannot always succeed or have an answer for everything,” he said. She glared down at their feet, still bare after all this time. She could say nothing against that. 

Solas eventually talked her down from her rage enough that exhaustion finally hit her like a galloping horse. He tried to offer his cloak and his warm side, but she couldn’t—no, _didn’t_ deserve his kindness. She just needed time to think and rest. He understood that, but he did not sleep far from her. 

In her dreams, she sought out Shan’shala for the first time since their last meeting. He asked no questions nor did he speak at all—he handed her a bo staff and she trained until her frustrations dulled to manageable embers. And when she was panting and sweating, laying supine on a forest floor littered with dead bamboo leaves, she finally accepted her failure. Not as a weakness or even much of a lesson learned—she’d failed many times before—but as another layer to the armour she was always adding onto. One failure was a success in another light. Giving and taking, losing and gaining. Even the little bit of light in her life was overshadowed by a dark future. In the end, she would give even that away. 

  
\--------------------------- 

Maordrid started awake, baring her blade at the sound of Solas’ distressed voice. Sensing no immediate danger, she sheathed it slowly and found him standing with his hands laced atop his head, staring off into the forest.

“Where are the horses?” she realised. 

“Run off. Probably while we were asleep,” he said, tossing a hand. “I thought we tied them off.”

“I think we were too tired to manage that common sense,” she said, getting to her feet reluctantly. She half expected the motion to be followed up with dizzying weakness and her hunger to be starker than ever, but the pleasant fullness of Elvhen magic was there, holding against it like the doors of a stronghold. Until she used it all up again. “My magic has returned some, at least.”

“Oh. That is good,” he said, turning to her. “I am strong enough to shift…I was worried you would not be. We could reach Val Royeaux today, if we press hard.” She didn’t find the idea appealing, but leaving misery behind days sooner was far more attractive.

“All right. I am flying, though.” The storm had alleviated enough that there was little rain and the winds were blowing in the direction they needed to go. She would be able to scout ahead for them as well. Maordrid stepped up to him, looking into his face. “How are you feeling?”

“Not ideal, but I will survive,” he said. “Your tea worked well, even though it was disgusting.” They shared a weary smile. Maori prepared herself to shift, but Solas’ hand at her shoulder had her pausing. “Thank you for all that you have done for me. I am indebted to you, even though I know you likely balk at the idea.” She inclined her head without looking at him.

“As I am to you.” He seemed like he wanted to say more but he stepped back instead and they cast their forms away in near unison. 

  
\--------------------------- 

Maordrid did not fly too far ahead of Solas where he loped through the trees alongside the Imperial Highway. It was easy to drift on the winds, letting it sweep her along like a child’s kite. Sometimes she dove down and hovered just above him somewhat playfully, but keeping that up proved to be energy sapping, so she mainly kept level with the tree tops. 

At a little over midday, they met up and agreed that she should fly ahead to gauge the distance to Val Royeaux and to see what settlements lay between them and the city. By then, the clouds had parted just enough to give her a fair view of the next several miles. They would reach the outskirts of the city that night, but there was little cover for a wolf to pass unnoticed by people for much longer. When she returned to Solas and relayed what she had seen, he sighed. Going as a filthy elf was not much better. 

“Keep flying and watching the road. If you see trouble, you can make it back to me before they likely will,” Solas said. So she did. 

But then she came upon a problem of her own only four miles in—a gust of wind that overwhelmed her tired raven body and sent her spiralling out of control, despite her best efforts to correct herself. When she crashed back to earth, she just lay there aching and giving small squawks of pain until Solas came pushing through the tall golden grains of the field where she had taken her fall. His gentle healer’s hands lifted her avian body and continued walking with her in his arms as though nothing had happened.

It was perhaps one of the strangest situations she had ever found herself in…but also oddly romantic—poetic, even. She didn’t bother to shift back for a while, even when they passed through the first small gathering of houses. People stared at the hooded, bedraggled man carrying a ruffled raven in the crook of his arm. They stared harder when her laugh came out more elf than bird. Solas’ pace quickened after that.

Once they were beyond view of civilisation, she changed back without warning, clutching at his coat and shaking with quiet laughter. He _hmphed_ and kept walking, though there was the barest smile on his face. She limped on behind him, enjoying the view that it brought.

“For once, I think I am looking forward to the city.” Solas joined her on the last hill just some three leagues from Val Royeaux that night. If they listened closely, the sounds of the night life could be heard on the other side of the city. Tinkling music, the occasional jolly shout, and night birds rose above it. Even in the gloom, the Orlesian capital was shiny in all its golds, blues, and whites.

“Hard not to after all we have been through,” she replied, wishing she had her pipe…or her flask. Instead, she made do with another coin. _Void, I wouldn’t even mind drinking myself into oblivion._

“I sense reticence from you,” he said.

“Unease, perhaps.”

“Would talking ease your troubled mind?” Her lips quirked into a fond smile. “I would be happy to lend an ear.”

“Sweet talker.” He ducked his head bashfully. “It is simple apprehension. With our luck, finding the others will prove a monumental task.” He made a snrk-ing noise in the back of his throat.

“True. If you can refrain from kissing the ground again, I would suggest flying around until you found them.” She chortled.

“I get to do all the dirty work.” He blanched beside her. “I jest, Solas. It was a good idea.” She faced him, crossing her arms. “Have I made you paranoid? Think I will come at you with claws again?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted.

“Good. Keep you on your toes. I cannot always be nice to you.” She hummed, tapping her finger in the coin’s hollow. “Our last night alone. Want to sit in that tree over there and tell me a story before we sleep?” He smiled in a way that made her stomach flop. 

“Have I told you about the Porter and the Sailor?” he asked. 

“The merchant that liked to tell tall tales?” she gasped. “That story amuses me! I would love to hear your version.” He laughed pleasantly, assisting her into the branches of the tree. Reaching down, she aided him in turn.

“You _do_ enjoy tales with a seaside theme. Very well,” he said, settling his back against the trunk and closing his eyes, “By fortune and fate, two men of the same name and of different walks in life crossed paths. Of the two, one had gone on seven wondrous voyages…”

  


\-------------------------

  


  


She spent the entirety of the next morning soaring over the city of Val Royeaux looking for signs of their companions. The previous day, Solas’ suggestion seemed completely reasonable. Now it was just insane. The city was a sprawl and there were inns scattered throughout it. Solas still felt quite ill and decided only to venture into the areas he’d visited with the Inquisitor their first trip. It was tempting to drop a surprise visit on Elgalas and harvest information from her, but she had made the mistake of agreeing to meet with Solas periodically throughout the day until it got too late to search. She also found it slightly worrying how good Solas was getting at spying her in busier areas. Then again, he was not difficult to find either. There _were_ other ravens and crows perched atop eaves and decorative streamers…but she supposed she wasn’t trying to act particularly natural and it made her stand out. 

The worst part was when she had arrived at their next rendezvous point at the fourth bell past noon—slightly early—and fell asleep standing in the shadow of a lion statue in the designated plaza. An Orlesian man woke her up by throwing a raw egg at her face and shouting at her to get back to the alienage where she belonged because apparently she was trespassing on a _private_ plaza. There was no sign of Solas. 

She didn’t bother changing back into a raven at that point and went stalking through the streets realising she must have gotten the meeting location wrong. He was probably thinking she’d gotten into trouble and was either about to stage a search of his own or preparing a brutal scolding for her—possibly both. Her own steadily rising frustration should have cooked the egg on her face. And damn, her stomach was _raving_ for the food she smelled everywhere but had no coin to buy it with. Bloody Solas had all their temple findings. In fact, he had everything except for her transcript—obviously—and the dagger that never left her back because a lighter load meant she could spend a longer time in the air. 

It was hard, giving a care at this point. Maintaining a shred of dignity was even more difficult with her sorry appearance. If she hated looking at her own face in the mirror when she was at her best, she wondered what people saw when she was at her worst. Granted, few had seen her at her lowest and Inaean—and Shiv—might be the only ones still living that had seen her at her best and that was somehow _after_ Mythal struck down the Titan. _I was drunk, probably._

People were definitely staring at her. Not that she blamed them. Her hair was matted with mud and sweat. Beneath her battered breastplate, a corner of her torn chemise had come untucked and was fluttering in an unflattering way. She’d lost her damn boots during the flight from the Beauchene farmstead. _All I’m missing are the vallaslin_.

She leaned over the edge of an opulent fountain in a too-beautiful courtyard, looking into the rippling waters at the distorted face peering back up at her. She traced a finger along the foggy reflection.

“That was cruel,” she chastised herself. _But the vallaslin are crueler._ Mind wandering, she thought of Dhrui and Yin who wore theirs so proudly. She touched the crest of her cheek, watching as a trickle of water ran down the reflection’s face. She wished she could see the markings with the optimism and pride that the Lavellans did. There had been times when she’d heavily considered sneaking into Dhrui’s tent and casting Fen’harel’s spell on her apprentice. _Break the chains, make sure she can never be used or controlled._

The reflection scattered beneath her palm then reformed like quicksilver. She looked up from the waters before it stilled again, then cocked a brow when her eyes registered just exactly where she’d taken to staring into her reflection like an idiot bird. Even in the gloom, the vast white building practically glowed. The entire campus was too big to see standing at her current vantage, but the University of Orlais was no less grand than anything else in the finest parts of the city. A massive blue dome formed the roof of the main building which sported two massive portals with intricate tympanums depicting the exchange of knowledge. Ionic pillars supported a flowery frieze as masterful as the tympanums, eventually giving way to perfect alabaster stairs and the courtyard where she stood. There was an abundance of statuary of scholars and other notable figures throughout the circular area, all of which were kept clean of bird droppings and stone-eating mosses as meticulously as though they were representations of Andraste herself. 

She was walking toward the entry before her mind caught up. _Frederic. If the others are in the city, Frederic will be here._ Or so logic would have her believe. Desperation drove her into the grand hall of the University. She made it about three paces inside before her eyes were arrested by beauty. Painted on the underside of the bell roof was a breathtaking fresco of godlike beings perched all along sunbathed clouds in a communal scene. Each face expressed passionate debate or an eager attentiveness. _Welcome to this place of learning,_ it said. Beneath the masterpiece were carvings of winged cherubs bearing scrolls, lyres, and trumpets. The carvings transitioned into framed paintings dating back as far as what she thought might have been the Divine Age although they were likely replicas. Original or not, they were probably worth a fortune. 

And now she was distracted, semi-unaware of her filthy feet leaving tracks on the otherwise pristine marbled floors. Somehow, she ended up in a small hallway with framed pieces of old Elvhen artifacts. Judging by their descriptive placards however, the scholars working on that branch of history weren’t savvy to the differences between Dalish and _ancient_ Elvhen cultures. Some pieces had placards with a mere _(?)_ where the origin was decidedly elven but the respective culture had yet to be distinguished. That would have been preferable to getting it wrong altogether. Like the display of a spotless Elvhen sentinel’s helm where someone had labelled it ‘ _a crown of Ghilan’nain, elven God of Crafts’._ After that, it was hard to keep faith that this human _Eolasan_ was spreading reliable knowledge. She knew it was difficult to piece together the lost history of her people and part of her was glad that someone was at least _trying_ …but on the other hand, their empire was dead and there would be no restoring it—whether it was on a small scale in a university’s archive or on a larger scale as Solas wanted. At least, not how it used to be.

There was also a very small part of her that found the entire thing morbidly funny. After a few thousand years, there were times where the constant ‘ _these ignorant mortals are mussing up our history and I hate everything’_ perspective got tiresome. A couple of times Sera and her had shared a laugh or five over the absurdity of some of the Dalish beliefs. The girl was firmly set in the present with hardly any regard for the past, which on occasion was a refreshing perspective. Even so, Sera was caustic in her ways and while Maordrid felt like she could deal with _most_ personalities, she did find that she had to take Sera in small doses. When their discussion tiptoed precariously close to ‘if the Elvhen empire was so great, then why’d it fall?’ She couldn’t bring herself to poke fun. Not when the reasons served as glaring reminders of what she had lived through.

Upon reflecting in this hall of elven artifacts, she found herself glad that she’d joined the Inquisition and hadn’t run off when the first opportunity to do so had presented itself. She’d hundreds of reminders why this world was worth her sacrifice. The people. Their colourful beliefs, flawed and otherwise. What they could accomplish in so short a time…and so much more. That was not to say she was ignoring the uglier realities—the Qun and Tevinter with their desire to conquer the world—but that was something she would let the Inquisitor handle. Her worries lay with Solas and the Veil.

But more presently, the footsteps behind her.

“ _Je n’en crois pas mes yeux! Quel malheur, qui vous a laissé entrer?!”_ She stiffened, then turned slightly to regard the offended Orlesian. The man was of course wearing a half-mask—one with so much scrollwork on it that she was surprised it didn’t fall off his face—and the crimson robes of a professor. _“Parle!”_

“Er…” She wracked her tired brains. Orlesian was not her speciality. “ _Est-ce que je t’offense toi?”_

_“Oui! Vous n’êtes pas étudiant! Vous n’avez rien à faire ici ! Maintenant partez avant que j’appelle les_ _**gardes**_ !”

He spoke too rapidly for her to translate much, but the tone in his voice and the word _gardes_ were two things she knew well. He took a menacing step forward but she remained.

“Could you speak the trade tongue? _S’il vous plaît?”_ she stalled while trying to figure out how best to find Frederic. The man gawked briefly before his lips twisted into a sneer.

“Are you tone deaf, rabbit?” he spat, “ _You are not welcome here!”_

“Then perhaps you should have a word with your colleagues about stationing proper guards out front,” she sniped, knowing her words would be falling on even deafer ears. The man growled and reached out with surprising swiftness, grabbing her by the collar of her shirt—the action of which, by her unfailing bad luck, chose to tear through her chestplate. The two of them stared in shock for a moment before he recovered and proceeded to hauling her back the way she had come, all while shouting for guards. She placed a thumb in the back of his hand and twisted it inward while hooking her foot around his right before it could land and abducting it away from his body. The man yelped in pain and fell to the floor. Made clumsy by exhaustion, her feet entangled in his robes and she went toppling over his flailing limbs.

“ _Comment osez-vous!_ I will see you in irons!” the scholar shrieked. 

“I am just trying to find som…” She trailed off, thinking twice. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to mention Frederic. She didn’t want to risk sullying his name or getting him in trouble. “Something,” she finished. “Is this not a place for learning?” _Phenomenal save. What a moving argument._

“You assault me and _now_ you are asking for free rein of my University?” he blustered. She got to her feet without kicking him, even though the temptation was overwhelming. She might have, if the sound of other voices approaching hadn’t distracted her. 

“There is no need to escort me out. I will go myself,” she snapped. “ _Dirthara-ma, av’uren._ ” She retraced her steps none-too hurriedly through the halls, eventually popping out into the echoing entry. A pair of guards went clattering from the east wing to the west just as she passed through the doors and back into the courtyard. She stalked through the courtyard, heavily debating whether she should take flight and risk being seen or try and find a hiding place until the excitement died down.

“Sweet Maker! _Maordrid?”_ another Orlesian voice called. She stopped in her footsteps right at the fountain and rotated on the spot to see a man in a clean leather jerkin, fine black pants and boots, and a full red mask coming down the steps after her. He’d several cylindrical containers under one arm but with his free hand, he reached up and removed his mask. She couldn’t help the small, relieved smile that spilled across her face. 

“You got my name right,” she said before she could stop herself. Frederic’s vivacious eyes took her in head to toe and a shadow fell over his face.

“It…it _is_ you, _oui_?” he asked tentatively. He even took a faltering step backward. She cocked her head to the side. 

“I may look like I crawled out of a swamp, but I am alive,” she smirked. “Barely.” The Professor seemed to reach a decision in his head and slowly crossed the distance between them, holding his mask tightly. 

“I have so many questions, I hardly know where to start!” he laughed nervously, then abruptly wrinkled his nose. She palmed her face.

“ _Void_ , I reek like death, don’t I?” she sighed. He hesitated, but then nodded.

“I gather you only just arrived?” He blinked up at the sky—still cloudy, but thankfully not raining—then back at her.

“Yes. And already running into trouble,” she huffed, peering behind him with a little paranoia. Frederic chuckled, glancing back as well and shaking his head.

“Professor Guillarme may have deserved the little shake up you gave him, but he will be raising a stink worse than you for the next few hours,” he said. Maordrid guffawed.

“Dear Professor, have you gained a sense of humour since we parted?” 

“I am not so certain my colleagues have enjoyed having me back so much. They have started referring to me as Prof-asser. Ever since they started that up I have considered fleeing back into the wild again.” The idea of the innocent Professor being tarnished by their other companions was extremely amusing to her. It lasted until the sounds of authoritative voices began issuing from the University doors. Frederic noticed as well. “Ah. Well. I think I can conclude my duties early today. Walk with me?” They quickly escaped the school grounds and onto the streets again. “Did you arrive here alone or…?” She swore fluently and Frederic politely excused her.

“Is there a plaza with a lion standing on its hind legs nearby?” she asked. Frederic hummed in thought then nodded.

“Follow me, I _think_ I know where that is.” He set off on another street at the next right turn. After taking some wide stairs, then passing through an archway formed of braided grapevines, and up three _more_ flights, she realised two things: the first, if this was the actual location where she was supposed to have met Solas, she had been _sorely_ off despite the two of them having agreed on it earlier. And second, she was regretting not stealing a baguette to tide her over until later.

“Could you…not walk so fast?” she panted, feeling light in the head. “I have not eaten in days and I would very much like to avoid fainting on you.” Frederic slowed immediately, holding a hand out to her and almost losing his bundle of cylinders. She recovered from the spell of lightheadness by the sheer determination to retain a shred of dignity. It would not do to pass out like a delicate maiden when they were so close to reuniting with the others. 

“The place is right up he—oh, Maker.” At the trepidation in Frederic’s voice, she looked ahead and saw Solas approaching briskly, one hand braced on the bow slung across his torso. The Professor took a few steps back which gave them both pause. “Is that really him?”

“What?” they both asked. Solas clasped his hands behind his back glancing between them.

“Ah. No, I am not the impostor,” he answered, a bit brusquely before turning his icy gaze on her. “I see you found a friend? Just not one we were looking for.” Maordrid glared fiery daggers at him, opening her mouth to deliver a scathing reply, but Frederic cleared his throat.

“Actually, _I_ found _her_ before the city guard could arrest her,” he said in a perfectly diplomatic voice. Maordrid buried her face in her hands as Solas took his turn to glare at her.

“Dare I ask why?”

“No, no you should not,” she replied and just like that, it began to rain again. Frederic swore in Orlesian and did his best to shield his cylinders.

“You mentioned you were famished, my Lady? Shall we head to a _brasserie_ and do our catching up there?” he asked, pointedly avoiding Solas’ gaze. She didn’t care for either of their silly games, so she nodded miserably. Frederic offered a small smile, sliding his mask back on and gesturing the way Solas had come. Solas fell in step with her easily. 

“What is on your face?” A hand flew up to her sticky cheeks at the reminder.

“Someone threw an egg at me because apparently I was in the wrong place with a lion statue. Do you know how many lion statues there are in this city?”

“One hundred and forty-two. Or maybe fifty-two, I cannot remember the exact number,” Frederic answered from ahead. She could feel Solas’ eye roll, but then she felt his fingers picking at her torn shirt flapping in the breeze.

“Did you also get into a brawl?” he asked a bit quieter. Maordrid looked down, then up at the skies with a voiceless curse while ripping the offending piece free of her armour. She was pretty sure her breastband was now exposed underneath. Something settled about her shoulders and she realised Solas had given her his cloak. 

“Not exactly,” she said, a bit gruff, pulling it shut. “A small scuffle.”

“You _are_ a small scuffle.” Her glare didn’t have any heat behind it.

“I take it you had no luck finding anything useful?” she said with a slight bite in her voice. Her eyes caught upon the coat at his breast. Pursing her lips against a smirk, she flicked out at the crumbs with her fingers. “Besides whatever pastry you happen to scarf down?” She felt the air go _very_ cold around him and smoothly put distance between them in her next step. _Ha, caught!_

“I had a lead and a bakery was conveniently located along the way,” he said, completely serious.

“A lead?” she said with a snort, “You mean a smell that led your nose?”

“Professor, have you been in touch with the Inquisitor?” Solas asked quickly. They came to a stop just outside of a quaint establishment with signage depicting a nug wearing a bib and holding utensils in its tiny hands. Mouth watering smells wafted from an unseen opening, causing her stomach to clench and growl painfully. Both men noticed, then looked at each other.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Frederic answered, pushing open the door. Solas gestured for her to go first.

“There is my lead,” he provided as she passed him. _Smug prick,_ she thought as Frederic guided them to a private booth situated closest to the foggy windows. Maordrid sat down with a quiet groan that was borderline vulgar. Solas slid in beside her while Frederic sat directly across, setting his things down on the bench next to him. A serving maid appeared almost instantly giving them a once over before turning a doe-eyed gaze on the Professor.

“ _Trois de la spéciale, s’il vous plaît,”_ he said and the woman swept off quickly. He removed his mask once more, scrubbing a hand through his reddish hair before taking them both in. “It is an unnerving thing to see someone return from the dead.” Frederic looked at her when he said that. Beside her, Solas leaned his back against the bench.

“You refer to the creatures we encountered in the marshes,” he said. Frederic dipped his head, eyes going distant, fingers catching on the wood of the table.

“Hardly anyone has spoken on the subject. Perhaps they still do not quite understand what happened. It was a night of confusion and horrors, after all,” the Professor continued in a subdued voice. 

“It was my imitator you saw die, wasn’t it?” she realised a bit belatedly. Frederic hesitated and then nodded again.

“You— _it_ attacked Lady Lavellan. She…ran it through,” he finished quickly, casting a hasty glance at Solas, “I think they meant to kill the Inquisitor…which the other one of you succeeded in, according to him.” Solas’ hand clenched into a fist on the bench. There was a minute tightening to his eyes and she knew he was trying to hide his turmoil. Maordrid quickly cleared her throat.

“What matters is that neither of us are dead. They were spirits,” she said. “And since you did not immediately greet me with bad news, I presume our companions are in fact, alive and well.” Frederic opened his mouth to answer, then closed it when the serving girl returned with three bowls of heaping mashed potatoes, bangers in brown gravy, minted peas, and an entire loaf of bread with butter. Solas immediately pushed a plate into her space, slipping a fork into her hand before she could tuck in with her fingers. 

“Slowly, _lethallin,_ ” he cautioned, blowing on a heap of potatoes on his own fork.

“You are correct,” Frederic continued. “I have not seen the Inquisitor since he and Master Pavus arrived days ago, but the latter has been pestering me daily for books and access to the University.” Maori quirked a grin, tearing off a chunk of bread to soak up some of the brown gravy before popping it into her mouth with a quiet moan. Solas’ hand spasmed on his napkin, though that may have been because a small bit of peas dropped onto his lap. 

“Any luck with the University?” Solas asked, plucking the fallen food and dropping it into his napkin. Frederic sighed, shaking his head while he picked idly at his own untouched food. 

“I have not gotten around to asking quite yet. My superiors were not pleased to learn that my…friends, Jeannette, Marcus, Claudius, and the others did not return with me. I have been writing letters to their families— _j’ai le cafard_ , it has been difficult.” 

“My apologies, I had forgotten—” Maordrid kicked Solas beneath the table, but at least he seemed to catch himself before he continued along that insensitive line of thought. “You’ve my condolences, Professor.” 

“Thank you,” Frederic replied, taking a sad bite of bread. The three of them continued to dine in an awkward silence. It was worse when she found she couldn’t finish her food. She’d tried to pace herself, but her stomach was whining at the sudden load. At least most Orlesian eateries had fancy little bags and boxes for people to take their unfinished meals in. She wondered if they’d been influenced by Arlathan’s storage practises. Vendors used to have clever little food boxes made of enchanted paper that could keep contents cool or hot. Tevinter was the only other place she knew to have adopted similar methods. An elbow pressed into her ribs, pulling her from her meandering thoughts. Solas looked like he had been trying to get her attention for a few seconds.

“The Professor has offered to guide us to the others,” he said, watching her carefully. “The end of our day is still a ways off.” She peered blearily into her food. He was right, they would probably undergo even more questioning. _No, we are not impostors. No, Solas did not kill you. Yes, Dhrui, you did exactly what I told you to do. Dorian, please don’t kill Solas._ Across from her, Frederic began scraping remnants into a little clay pot that had been brought for them. Solas reached into one of their pouches and removed a few of the Elvhen coins that he pushed over to the scholar as payment. Frederic blinked at the currency before picking one up.

“I know someone at the University that would be quite interested in this,” he said.

“May it serve you well. It is ancient Elvhen currency,” Solas told him as he slid from the booth. 

“Or perhaps it will serve _you_ ,” Frederic said, with a friendly smile. “If I mention it came from an expert on the…Elvhen, it may help to gain all of you access into the library.” Solas finally looked interested.

“I did glimpse one of their elven displays before I…left. I think they are in need of advice from someone with knowledge on the subject,” Maori said. Solas’ posture straightened into something more befitting his name. She was endeared to the way he reacted when someone showed appreciation toward his knowledge. The idea of Solas dismantling the entire University’s elven foundation of knowledge with nothing but his eloquence with words was…arousing.

Maori hastily escaped the confines of the too-small dining area, ears like small torches. The smell of days spent travelling coupled with the egg still on her face served as a decent equivalent of a bucket of ice water.

It didn’t help that Solas was peering at her with thinly veiled curiosity. She swept out of the _brasserie_ and waited, clutching his cloak closed and feeling far too full. 

On the walk through the city, Maori began to wonder if she’d stepped into an entirely different dimension. Once they’d left, Solas and Frederic began suddenly chatting like old friends over some books they were both familiar with. For a spell, she was content to ignore all else. 

\-----------------------------

“Should we wake them?”

“I dunno, they’re kinda…”

“Please don’t say cute. There is nothing _cute_ about a wet hobo and the smelly bog monster attached to it.”

“She’s drooling, I’ll bet Varric will buy that information for his book.”

“Also, I was going to say _peaceful,_ Dorian?”

Maordrid blinked back into consciousness. She was tucked into something warm that coughed. _Damn it._

Right. Frederic had left them outside the inn like a couple of strays after the man inside had rejected them until the Inquisitor could come and ‘claim’ them. Her hands were wrapped around a muscular bicep, her head pressed into a shoulder. _Double damn._ Poor Solas had his own hands shoved beneath his armpits and his legs crossed to keep his own self warm. They smelled of sweat, wet fur and feather, morass muck, and now, of egg. She almost gagged.

Solas jolted awake beside her with an oddly dignified sneeze. 

“Goodness, even his sneezes have egos.” Maori offered the shiny Tevinter a gesture as filthy as her appearance. He returned it with a bejewelled finger and a dazzling smile.

“Ever the one to focus on the things that don’t matter, Dorian,” Solas said with a sniff. Dhrui stepped forward from the group and offered Maori her hands with a warm smile and Yin did the same graciously for Solas, both blessed souls ignoring the cloud of stench that followed. 

“Since you both look like you could use a bath and some proper rest before we talk about the void that swallowed you two, why don’t we get the room situation configured first?” Yin proposed. They followed the Inquisitor through the blue doors of the Ivory Herring Inn. Maori hardly cared to take in the resplendence of the interior, opting instead to lean sleepily against a nearby pillar. Dhrui flounced up beside her seemingly unaffected by her stench. She noted that the girl was actually a little muddied herself.

“Where were you about?” Maori managed to ask. 

“Oh! There is a lovely training yard just behind the inn. Just because you’ve been missing I didn’t take it as an excuse not to train,” Dhrui said with a wink. “Yin has been between writing letters and recovering. And Dorian just sits around looking pretty.”

“I heard that. I can look pretty and accomplish quite a lot at the same time!” Dorian said, continuing to keep his distance from her. Dhrui smirked and then walked over to where Solas was standing patiently behind Yin, listening in on the conversation between him and the serviceman. Maordrid hid a small smile behind a grubby hand when Dhrui threw her arms around the unsuspecting mage in a hug. Solas’ already sick-flushed cheeks went redder but he patted her on the head, murmuring a greeting in elvish. Everyone jumped at various levels of alarm when Yin suddenly threw his own arms up and began ranting in broken elven and fluent Antivan. The serviceman hardly reacted. Dorian reached out, placing a hand against his shoulderblade and the Inquisitor fortunately lowered his arms but continued glowering at the bespectacled Orlesian.

“Someone poked the bear,” Dhrui whispered as Maori joined her and Solas. Yin turned away from the desk, still stormy.

“First they take away our rooms because we were _late_ for our reservation. ‘Hon-hon! But we promise to sort it all out once the rest of your party arrives!’” Yin said in a bad accent. “This is the only nice inn that will even _serve_ ‘knife ears’, short of staying in the alienage.” He tossed a hand, glaring back over his shoulder. “The _elves_ are expected to share a room between themselves—except for the Inquisitor. Our _lovely_ host’s ears are closed to reason!” Behind him, the secretary cleared his throat delicately, but said nothing, smacking his lips in a truly irritable fashion.

“Not entirely unexpected, considering where we are,” Solas remarked with an arched brow.

“I mean, it’s not the worst thing. It’ll be like staying in an aravel again,” Dhrui said, eyes shifting between Maori and Solas. Yin bristled.

“Maybe _you’re_ fine with it, but it’s the principle! You’re respected members of the Inquisition! Their dishonesty is disgusting.” Maori was flattered that he would kick so much dust up for them, but she was already over the slight mishap. A bed and a bath was all she wanted.

He shook his head and stalked back to the desk, snatching a ring of keys off the table and effectively startling the Orlesian. Dorian shook his head and uttered something under his breath that earned a derisive sniff from the beady-eyed human. They filed behind Yin as he tramped up an alabaster staircase and through a long hall until they came to a T-shaped split. Yin tossed the key to Solas. “Dhrui, come get your things whenever. You’re at the far bloody end. _Coglione Orlesiano_ …” Dorian shrugged apologetically to the three of them before following Yin down their side of the corridor.

Solas unlocked their door, pushing it open and standing to the side so they could all peered in.

“Least it isn’t a closet,” Dhrui said, heading in first. Solas raised an eyebrow, eyes roaming the inside. The room was narrow, but the ceilings were high enough that Maori didn’t feel claustrophobic. There was even a single latched window at the other end. “Oh. I see what the problem is. I call this bed!”

The other two ventured farther inside and Maordrid just sighed. Two beds. 

“I do not mind sleeping on the floor,” Solas immediately said. Her eyebrows flattened. _Seriously. After everything?_

“Say that after we’ve been here…oh, a week?” Dhrui said, lounging on her bed that was _conveniently_ big enough one person. The other was just slightly bigger. 

“I have slept in the forest for longer,” Solas replied, approaching the window whose curtains he promptly threw open, allowing more grey light to flood in. It made the room feel slightly bigger, at least. After, he approached the bed and began pulling a pillow and a thin sheet from it.

Maori snatched the bedding from his hands. “I will not have you suffer for no reason. You are sick and _probably_ sore.” Dhrui snickered.

“I mean, you _did_ fall asleep with her on your lap once,” the little gnat said. Solas’ ears went pink at the tips and Maordrid was sure hers weren’t much better. The last few nights immediately played through her head of close contact.

She gave him a sidelong glance with a small smirk. “I vote we make her sleep with Shamun.” 

“Not a bad idea,” Solas remarked. Dhrui cackled and buried her face in one of the pillows.

“Dhrui, did any of our belongings survive?” Maordrid sighed.

“ _Oui!”_ Bloodred irises peered up over the pillow. “You two probably want some new clothes, huh. _All right,_ I’ll be back.” Dhrui rolled off the bed and was gone from the room in a flash. Maordrid hummed tiredly and surveyed the room, noticing another doorway near the entry with a semi-foggy mirror attached to it. Opening it revealed a small bathing chamber of similar design to the one at Tahiel’s villa in Verchiel. Except far less grand. There was a mildewy smell to it as well.

She pulled her boots off and removed Solas’ cloak from her shoulders, then faced Solas who was busy doing the same with his own layers. 

“I forgot we are here to get fitted for formal attire,” she said, just to fill the silence. He snorted.

“I had too. We are in dire need of informal vestments as well.” He tossed his coat over a rickety chair. “We may actually have a chance for valuable research, if the Professor comes through.” She nodded. There were a few other things she could definitely take care of while in the city.

“With our finer accoutrements—you think we are to follow a specific theme…or…?” Why she kept returning to the subject was a mystery even to her. One track mind, she supposed. At least he was humouring her.

“Formal but unique to our positions, if I recall correctly,” he said, walking around the bed. He offered a small smile and gestured for her to turn around. She did slowly, then felt his fingers pulling at the straps of her chestpiece. Something about it felt…intimate. It was different than the other times. She felt him run a hand along the length of her filthy braid before he carefully lifted it over her left shoulder. His deft artist’s fingers worked the straps, releasing it slowly. When it came loose, he removed it himself, setting it on the floor by the chair. The tips of his fingers brushed along the curve of her neck, so slight she barely felt them. It left her momentarily bereft of words. When she remembered herself, she hastily pulled the remnants of her shirt together—the Guillarme man had devastated it. More than likely, she would throw everything she was wearing into a burn pile.

“Hm. I wonder if there are any proper elven armourers in this city,” she said, clearing throat and trying to focus on anything else. 

“Only you would think of wearing armour to peace talks,” he teased as she turned to face him. She gave him a puzzled look.

“What else would I wear?” He raised a brow and swept his gaze down her body. Her ears burned at his boldness.

“I can think of several things other than armour,” he said. She crossed her arms over the tear and gave him a dubious look.

“Mm, yes, because a dress would be very practical in a setting where we will most likely be fighting. That is our pattern. And I am not about to go flashing a whole palace of Orlesians my scars.”

“There are methods to obscure such scars, if it was something you were concerned about.”

“Solas. Can you imagine Cassandra in a dress?” 

“I would rather not.”

“So imagining _me…”_

“—Is far more preferable,” he said, turning away smoothly before she could react. “It would not hurt anyone to try one or two on.” She reached down and threw a pillow at the back of his head just as the door to the room swung open to admit a beaming Dhrui bearing their bags and staves. 

“Finally,” Maordrid said and jumped over Dhrui’s bed to dash into the bathing chamber before Solas could retaliate. It was only after she had filled the tub and freed herself of her pungent rags that she realised there were no soaps or oils. She groaned loudly. The door creaked open and Dhrui poked her head in with a grin, white braid swinging wildly.

“Hey, Solas, she’s got a nice arse if you’re interested!” Dhrui shouted back at him. There was a small crash followed by a curse in elvish. “Bought some good smells in the city ‘cause I’d rather not reek like the back end of a druffalo. Here!” Dhrui tossed two vials that Maori caught and shut the door quickly. She snorted a laugh when she heard Dhrui and Solas begin bickering back and forth about discretion and whatever else.

Meanwhile, she yanked viciously at the leather tie in her braid and did her best to untangle the mud-caked tresses. Then at last she plopped unceremoniously into the water with a ridiculous moan of relief. The heat from her sigils sank into her coiled muscles like fingers. As much as she wanted to sit there all night, Solas was waiting in queue. She scrubbed her scalp with Dhrui’s oil—an almost too sweet jasmine bloom scent—and washed the rest of her body quickly. The water looked like sewage. It took two more buckets to truly scrub the worst of the dirt from her skin, but she was certain she probably missed a spot or two on her back. With the weight of the day finally catching up, making the extra effort to be thorough was unappealing, so she called it quits. As a finale, she cleaned her teeth with a simple spell, spitting the grit into the water and then emptied the tub contents down the smelly hole near the pump. She _did_ take the time to refill the tub for Solas— _he better never say I didn’t do anything nice for him—_ drawing a warming glyph in it as a finishing touch. In a small wooden linen closet against the wall she found that the servants of the inn had at least provided more than one towel. She happily twisted her hair up into one and wrapped her body in another before gathering her soiled things and leaving the chamber. Dhrui was sitting in a chair by the window sneaking bites of sausage out of the clay pot when she came out. Solas glanced up from a book as the lantern light from inside the chamber shone on him. He cleared his throat and gathered his own neat pile of clothes beside him before rushing past her, closing the door quickly.

Maordrid pointed a finger threateningly at Dhrui before she could say anything. The girl just shoved the rest of the sausage in her mouth and shrugged. When she finally dug into her pack to look for clothing, she simply sat in defeat. There was one outfit, still wrapped in the brown paper Lady Josephine had given it to her in. It wasn’t anything to sleep in. She _was_ relieved to see a replacement breastband and two pairs of smalls.

“Dhrui,” she said, sounding very pathetic. “I need a favour.” Maori looked up at her with a frown. “Could you spare a shirt…and leggings? At least until I get my own.” At least she didn’t receive any sarcastic quips.

“You really don’t afford yourself any luxuries, do you? Like, you know, a spare outfit? Nice underthings?” Dhrui said as she dug around her own bag. It looked like they had gotten around to doing a little shopping while they were gone.

“Being conscientious with what I already own has helped me to avoid needing others,” she replied, catching the soft grey tunic and the supple leathers that followed. Dhrui happily supplied her with a pair of footwraps as well. 

“You’ve been doing a piss-poor job of it lately.” Maordrid turned her back on Dhrui and dropped her towel, tugging her smalls on over her legs. She fumbled a bit with the breastband. She wasn’t sure why she even bothered with one. Even with the scar tissue where her right breast had been, her left was rather small. Muscles, war, and difficult times were all her body knew. Maybe the strophium was just another act of defiance to the cruel being who’d sought to mark all her slaves apart from others with more than _vallaslin_. _You are my weapon, not a woman, nor a man’s plaything,_ the ghost of the past whispered. Maordrid wrapped the band around her chest anyway. 

“Yes, I suppose I have.” Maori turned back around. She didn’t care that Dhrui had been staring. _It’s just a body, after all._

“Y’know, once Yin is done giving you the talk, I think the three of us—” Dhrui nodded in Solas’ direction “—are gonna take a little trip to find you actual clothes!” Maori pulled on the leggings and stared at the ashen-haired sprite before her, pausing in the act of sliding into the tunic. “It’ll be a disaster for you, but amusement for me.”

“Is there any way I can get out of this arrangement?” she sighed, rolling up the too-long sleeves.

“’Fraid not, my love,” Dhrui cooed, watching as she came to stand at the foot of the bed to assess a plan of attack for the night. _And several others to come,_ she thought annoyed. “I’ve never met elves as concerned about propriety than you two. You’d think spending time in the wilds would make you…I dunno, less mannered? Who _cares_!” Dhrui put the cover back on the food pot and set it down beneath her chair, crossing her legs comfortably. Maori refrained from making a remark about the Dalish’s ‘manner’s. “Back with my clan during festivals lots of us would pass out in the grass, wake up in a pile. Nothing to it. Then again, I suppose we’re not like you two little wanderers…wandering around with nothing but yourselves to touch.” Maori pursed her lips, willing the blush to stay beneath the collar of her tunic. She walked up to the edge of the bed and lay on the right side closest to Dhrui’s. She barely took up a fourth of the mattress. 

“You seem to think me some lustful young maiden without self control,” Maori mused, propping herself up on her elbows. Dhrui rolled her eyes.

“Uh-huh. All it takes is for the _riiight_ touch.” Dhrui pointed a finger at the door just as it opened. Solas walked out wearing a clean cream-coloured sweater and humble leggings, eyeing the Lavellan sister warily. Dhrui got to her feet and crossed the room to roll onto her bed gracefully. “Assuming you two aren’t actually the creatures from the marshes here to kill us all in our sleep, I’m gonna say it ‘cause no one else will—I missed your broody faces.” Solas sighed and met Maori’s gaze placidly after he placed his dirties near his pack. 

“I will give it a few days in close quarters before someone snaps,” Maordrid said, cutting her eyes quietly at Solas while facing Dhrui. Lavellan bit her lip against knowing smirk and rolled up into her blankets. 

“I bid thee good night, my handsome elves!” And then she was silent. Behind her, the bed dipped. She lay down and twisted to face him.

“You do not have to lay on the very edge,” he said in a low voice. She didn’t move. Solas lay on his side facing her, tucking a pillow under his head, obviously too exhausted to care about what she was worried over. After a moment, she removed her hair towel and mirrored him, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. There was a wide enough space between them to fit Dhrui, it was ridiculous. She scooted closer, earning a tired smile from him. His left hand stretched out from beneath his pillow, long fingers curling beneath a lock of her hair. She watched him twist it around his index and middle, running his thumb along it. “I have never seen you with your hair down. I like it.” She wrinkled her nose in response and lifted her hand, clenching it into a fist to extinguish the few lanterns in the room. 

She slept with his fingers entangled in her hair, neither of them retreating nor advancing. In her dreams, she wondered if that was how it would be on the battlefield, if it ever came to it. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered doing a 20k+ chapter for this because it all flowed so well together  
> but that's long as hell and the Part II is a lot of important backstory that I don't want to detract from.
> 
> So yeah, uh, lots of...deviation! Hopefully you will all like it (@w@)
> 
>  
> 
> Translations and things:
> 
>  
> 
> [The mural I imagined inside the University (borrowed from the idea heavily)](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/185691641677)
> 
>  
> 
>  **Eolasan** \- _school, place of skill_
> 
> [Pardon my bad French]  
> Angry Orlesian:  
>  _Je n’en crois pas mes yeux! Quel malheur, qui vous a laissé entrer?!”_  
>  (I can’t believe my eyes! What a disgrace, who let you in here?) 
> 
> Maori: _Est-ce que je t’offense toi?”_ (Am I offending you?)
> 
> AO: _Oui! Vous n’êtes pas étudiant! Vous n’avez rien à faire ici ! Maintenant partez avant que j’appelle les_ **gardes**  
>  (Yes! You are no student! You have no business here! Now begone before I call the guards!)
> 
> AO: _Comment osez-vous!_ (How dare you!)
> 
> Maori: _Dirthara-ma_ , av’uren. (May you learn, mouth-ears)
> 
> And finally Fred: _j’ai le cafard_ (I have the cockroach/I am feeling down) because the French have hilarious idioms.
> 
>  
> 
> _How you like that immersion?_


	82. Serendipity & Zemblanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **[Alternatively: Perilous Pursuits] ******  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a given, but when the Elvhen start talking to one another just assume that it's in elven. I didn't want to put everything in italics this time.
> 
> I meant to post this yesterday, but I got a new laptop and I've been getting into drawing on it! So...yeah, expect some shitty illustrations soon :) 
> 
> Happy reading!

It was a never ending battle. From waking into sleep. The burden Maordrid carried was more apparent with her visible exhaustion. The bruises beneath her eyes seemed deeper than normal and there was a downward slope to her shoulders that was never present. Even her aura was dampened and she knew it wasn’t because of her fatigue. Overall, the warrior-mage just seemed… _diminished._ Earlier, where Yin had seen peace in the two of them, Dhrui had seen a man and a woman trying to escape the confines of their duties for but a moment. There was nothing peaceful in that. Solas, with his head bowed and limbs crossed in sleep only appeared guarded and closed off. While tucked into his side, Maordrid’s brows had been knitted as though torn by a difficult decision. 

Solas had once said he lived life if only because it allowed him to see more of the Fade. And maybe that was the truth when he wasn’t wearing the mantle of Fen’harel. He found happiness within it, that much was true. So whenever she found him sleeping, she tried not to disturb him. Maordrid was a different story. Her greatest enemy seemed to be her own mind and dreams. Too often the woman skirted rest and it worried her. If Dhrui had been a more skilled Dreamer like her father, she would have sought Maordrid out to keep her company, but trying to navigate the Fade alone often caused her headaches not unlike ones brought on by a night of heavy drinking.

That didn’t stop her from trying to seek her out that night. There were so many things she wanted to ask and dreams seemed the most private place to do so. Unfortunately, Val Royeaux was a mess in the Fade as much as it was in waking. Dhrui immediately picked up an annoying spirit wearing an Orlesian mask and Chevalier armour while she tried to find her way through the clamouring memories of Val Royeaux. The spirit only grew more aggressive the more irritated she got at the roiling confusion and she realised it was imitating the horrible human she’d encountered at the Sun Gate the day Yin had arrived. Just as the spirit was corralling her into a dreadfully familiar alley, a woman appeared in bloodred dream armour and cleared her throat.

“Run along, Shame. You should be bothering the man whose face you wear,” Maordrid commanded. The spirit stopped a foot from Dhrui and turned its masked gaze on the Somniari. It laughed darkly.

“Oh, but look at this! I see myself in you, abundant as cracks in a shattered mirror. Why would I want to go now?” Shame asked, its accent changing to mimic Maori’s. She gave him a pleasant smile.

“You hover about in a city that is a cesspool of shame and you would waste your time on me? Your efforts would be more fruitful elsewhere,” Maordrid said. Shame walked forward, shrinking and widening in size until it resembled something like a dwarf. Maordrid sighed, glancing at her, then back at the dwarf. 

“You could never bring honour to us,” Shame said in a new voice. It was deep, but bright, reminding her of a chasm filled with lava. “Never will.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” Maordrid replied in a cold voice. “ _Venas myathash, da’elgar._ ” Dhrui went to Maori’s side when she beckoned, passing the dwarf. It growled and almost seemed like it was about to attack, but Maordrid’s eyes glowed like labradorite moons and Dhrui found them both suddenly standing in empty grey Fade. The Dreamer observed her serenely. 

“What did you do to…it?” Dhrui asked.

“Young spirits are easy to lose if you learn how to ward your mind properly,” Maori said. Dhrui scoffed.

“Just how young was that one?” Maordrid didn’t answer. That probably meant it was ancient by mortal standards. “I was trying to find you before it came along, you know.”

“I do. Your brother may have a beacon in his hand, but both your spirits are…distracting when nearby,” Maori said thoughtfully. 

“That would explain why Solas has accidentally wandered into one or two of my dreams,” Dhrui said, recalling an instance at Griffon Wing Keep. Cole had come to her that night to talk about Antivan and Dalish poetry. The spirit boy loved music and asked her to sing for him. The two of them had been sitting on one of the many balconies when Solas had wandered in. It had been a pleasant surprise at the time. Not long after had she found out his true identity and spent the entirety of a night wide awake and thinking about how she— _a Dalish—_ the Dread Wolf, and a spirit of Compassion had sat around in _her dream_ talking about fucking poetry.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Dhrui started from her thoughts to see Maordrid looking at her with worry.

“It did at first, if I’m completely honest,” Dhrui said. “I’ve been told my whole life that a vicious dream wolf would come and take all the good dreams from me if I didn’t learn to take control of my abilities in the Fade. That he would eventually take my magic completely once he had his fill.” She shook her head in shame. “Our Keeper was considering sending me to another clan because of it.” She hated the way Maori was looking at her right now. Like she felt sorry for her. “He caught my scent and there was nothing terrifying about it at all. Gods, Maori, he offered to _help_ me.” The other elf chuckled, bringing a gauntleted hand around to inspect the fingers.

“Did he ask for anything in return? If your legends about the Dread Wolf are to be heeded,” the mage said, almost patronising. Dhrui bristled slightly.

“Poetry, actually,” she said. “All right, are you going to tell me why _you_ suddenly have this air of superiority about you? Going to start lecturing me as well on how dumb the Dalish are? Ugh, are all ancient Elvhen like you two? Sometimes it seems like you don’t feel anything. Cold and distant like the stars.” Maordrid flinched back, staring like she’d just slapped her.

“That could not be further from the truth,” she defended. “But…I see where you are coming from.” 

“Do you? Or are you just saying that?” Maori bit her lip and looked to the right by her feet. Then she nodded to herself as if reaching some sort of decision.

“Would you want to see something that may prove to you that we are not so different after all?” 

“You’ve already shown me how your ways of showing emotions were superior. Just want to brag some more?” Maordrid shook her head.

“No. A memory of mine. You could see and feel as I once did. The Dalish have their flaws…and I have mine.” That…sounded both frightening and _really_ interesting. There was also a little bit of residual fear over the _last_ time Maori had tried to show her something of Arlathan.

“I don’t know if I can stomach another battlefield,” she said.

“It would be relevant to something you have already touched upon. Yes or no?” Dhrui gave her a sceptical look.

“See, the way you’re talking…you sound like a demon. And after the marshes, I can’t be too careful,” she said. 

“A demon would have asked for something in return. I am not. You can leave at any time,” Maori said. “I want to share it with you. Please?” It didn’t take much more convincing than that. Knowledge was knowledge and Gods knew the Dalish needed more of that. And when did Maori ever willingly share parts of herself? She steeled herself and nodded. As Maori reached forward, she raised her hand briefly. 

“Why won’t you tell me what it is?” Dhrui asked. Maori gave her a quick smile.

“Because showing is more fun than telling.” The bloodred gauntlet touched her shoulder and the Fade shifted again. 

**~{o}~~{o}~~{o}~~{o}~~{o}~**

Reality rippled and then snapped like a bowstring and she was an arrow shot from it. The world whistled around her, vast yet somehow conforming— _thwack!_ she was grounded again. None of it made sense. The first thing she noticed was that her body felt different. Not unpleasant, but neither was it comfortable. The body was smaller, but her spirit felt like water poured into too big a glass. She tried to move an arm but it wouldn’t obey.

_Don’t fight it,_ a voice said. _This is a memory. You are safe._

Maordrid.

_Yes. And now you are me._

The world snapped one more time and…yes, she remembered now.

Her hand was poised before the surface of a mirror.

“You know, we are completely screwed if the sentinels catch us during the Dreaming hours.” Silvery violet light bathed her skin as she activated the Eluvian by whisper of eavesdropped magic. “The Archivists don’t like it. It’s the only time they have to organise records.”

“That is what they would like you to believe they are doing. ‘Organising’. You mean tailoring it to fit the agendas of the High Ones,” she said. 

“If we are caught, the punishment will be severe.”

“But if we are _not_ , the knowledge will be that much sweeter,” she said. Shiveren sighed. “Where is your sense of adventure lately, Shiv? What are the Archivists going to tell us if we are spotted? _Stop seeking knowledge?_ " The elf beside her peered up at the illuminated Eluvian with tiger-orange eyes filled with some inscrutable emotion. He got the same look whenever he was trying to figure out the best way to cause something the most pain possible.

“Fine, fine, maybe it isn’t the Archivists I’m concerned for,” Shiv said as they passed through the gate into the darkened Library. The Eluvian shut off at Shiveren’s command.

“Then what is it?” Shiv handed her one of the cloaks and masks he had been carrying.

“The Vir Dirthara is one of the haunts of _the Wolf_ himself. You know about him, don’t you? Of course you do, you’re not stupid.” She did. The thought was a little worrying. The title was gaining weight to it, especially after Andruil’s thunderous mishap with the man. The High One positively hated the Wolf. Probably because the Huntress had never been able to catch him. The quarry was likely made even more tantalising to the Huntress because he was purported to be one of Mythal’s favourites—he was practically Andruil’s equal and _Andruil_ wanted to be at the top of the food chain. 

Besides that, all she knew about him was that he was a daring Dreamer that visited the Void as casually as any place. Maybe that was another reason Andruil hated him. He went where she couldn’t go. She shuddered at the thought that someone like him could even be roaming in a place as tranquil as the Library. But she wouldn’t admit her unease to Shiveren. 

“The Library is a labyrinth. Even if he was here, what are the chances we’ll run into him?” she whispered, swinging the cloak on and pulling up the hood. The simple wooden masks were hardly more than a slit for a mouth and round holes for eyes. Shiv sighed. 

“You make a good point. No sense staging a deadly heist only to turn around at the front door. What’s left is deciding where _you_ want to go, _boss_.” She gave the other elf a grin that he probably didn’t see beneath the shadows of her hood. She lifted the mask to her face and a small spell within its grains held it in place.

“Do you remember that Ghimyean fellow in Dirthamen’s company the other day?” Shiveren gave another sigh, but this was one of his ‘ _I know something I shouldn’t’_ sounds. 

“I knew you were going to be troublesome the day I laid eyes on you,” Shiv said. She almost opened her mouth to argue, but he was quicker, “Yes, I know that cocksure idiot. I am not going to like this, am I?” She ignored his false disinterest. He secretly loved trouble—that’s what had attracted him to be her friend in the first place. 

“I don’t like _him_. Every time he comes by the grounds I hear him going on about shapeshifting and how true power is demonstrated through denying uniformity,” she said as they began walking up a glass path flanked by moonlit cherry blossoms. “When we were introduced, all he did was criticise my choice of being dedicated to _Ena’sal’in’amelan_ training. I don’t have to hide what I’ve been doing in secret anymore.” No one knew she was a Dreamer. Nor did they know that Shan’shala existed or that he’d been training her in a pocket within her dreams in the Fade. It was the only thing that had kept her sane—the hope that _one day_ she would get to put her skills to use. “Does it not make sense that I would set my focus on honing my skills?” Shiveren touched her shoulder to guide her along another path through a tower built entirely of blue crystal.

“Ghimyean is complicated, _lethallin_. But I am certain he is baiting you,” Shiv whispered.

“What? How?” she demanded, stopping him. He pressed his fingertips to the cheek of his mask, looking down at her with regret in his eyes. 

“Because he’s interested in you. Your abilities. When you came to us, your _vallaslin_ were…different. Modified—”

“ _What?!_ How do you know this? I _knew_ there was something wrong and they told me…” She trailed off with a furious hiss, then she stepped forward, shaking him. “What else are you keeping from me?” she demanded. She felt his guilt in the air _then_ he rubbed his neck. She stepped back when she saw the bruise in the hollow just beneath his ear. “You slept with him! Or…or he slept with you! For information on _me?_ ” Shiv’s eyes widened and he began waving his hands apologetically.

“I did it because I care about you! That’s…that’s not important! I’m trying to tell you something here and you’re making it very difficult,” he hissed, pulling her into an alcove. She crossed her arms, lifting the mask so that she could level her best mimicry of Elgar’nan’s glare at him. “All right, look. I don’t know how Ghimyean knows, but he told me that _vallaslin_ like the kind you had is only placed on slaves with…questionable power.” She tapped her finger on her elbow.

“ In other words, elves that don’t know their origins that come from unknown settlements beyond the cities,” she deadpanned. Shiv twisted one of his bracelets and shrugged with a nod. 

“You were a potential threat to the one you served beneath, so they put a tighter leash on you. Look, that’s not the point because it’s been loosened—at least so long as you behave. And you should really ignore Ghimyean because he will be the one that gets you put back on that leash if you let him get to you! Look, I’m all for getting up to naughty shit and tearing down the current hierarchy, but he’s…Ghimyean is dangerous,” Shiv hissed the last three words, then straightened up, casting his feline-like gaze both ways. “You should drop this streak of curiosity before something bad happens.” 

“Too late. You better tell me what you know,” she threatened. “Or I will test out that rumour about how to summon the Wolf. How does the spell go?” She went to call her magic but Shiveren captured her hands in his and dispelled it. 

“You are going to get us both killed,” he hissed, sounding genuinely frightened. She leaned up so close to his face that she could feel his panicked breaths on her cheeks.

“Then stop holding back and tell me. You are not one of Dirthamen’s and neither am I. You can tell secrets,” she growled. Shiv’s throat bobbed but finally, _finally_ he gave in. _That’s my brave idiot!_

“Your path to become a spirit warrior is admirable and people have taken notice of your skill. And not all of them are good people.” He saw something across a bridge—a light, or maybe a spirit—and continued pulling her along their path. “Ghimyean included.”

“What interest does he have in me?” she demanded again, sliding the mask back on.

“Your power, I think. You’ve chosen a uniform path, just like you said. He thinks you’re stupid and that you should branch out. That’s why he keeps talking about things like shapeshifting and staging great heists when he’s in your vicinity,” Shiv said. “He’s…testing you to see how far you’ll go. It’s no secret that you’re competitive.” The anger that bubbled up in her made the _vallaslin_ glow hot and painful in her skin. “Damn it, _lethallin_ , rein in your magic or else we _will_ get caught!” She hated all of this. All of these games, the strings people kept trying to attach to her to make her dance this way and that like some broken puppet. And it was working. They didn’t need _vallaslin_ to control her when her emotions were enough. Get her angry and she’d do almost anything to sate it. 

“If he fancies himself a bloody puppeteer like one of the sodding High Rulers, then so be it. I will never be interested in a fool that strives to be like one of them. I am doing this for my own betterment,” she finally said after a deep breath. “Take me to find a shapeshifting tome. I want to be a griffon.” Shiveren choked.

“So, not only is that a surefire way to piss off the Huntress _even more_ , but also Ghilan’nain! That form was a gift from Ghilan’nain to Andruil—do you actually have a death wish?” he sputtered. 

“Then maybe they should have been more careful guarding their precious form from Dirthamen if they wanted it kept secret!” she said, not caring that it sounded childish. “No, if I was feeling suicidal I would go straight for a dragon form. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet.” Shiv continued staring at her, in wide-eyed disbelief. 

“What are you playing at?” he whispered. She didn’t meet his gaze. _Pride, ego, anger, that’s what,_ she thought at him. _A pox on Ghimyean for putting it into my head._

“I have been denied the chance to learn ever since I came here,” she said, “In my village, knowledge was exchanged without fear of costing you blood or servitude. I hoped to serve the People coming here…but also to see beyond the little world I lived in for so long. I’d heard such wondrous things about the great leaders of the Elvhen.” She clucked her tongue, staring off into the pillowy white clouds swirling beneath their feet. “I was naive to place trust in them—to think they would protect me, or anyone else for that matter.” His silence was full of surprise. Probably because she never shared her past before the city with him or anyone. For some reason, people like Shiveren were interested in that past and more specifically, her origin—her beginning. Unfortunately, even she didn’t know the answer.

“I hate you so much right now. I shouldn’t have let you talk me out of my soft bed,” Shiv said, but she didn’t believe him. 

“Either take me to the part of the Library that I seek or get out of my way, Shiveren,” she said. An air of annoyance and worry flared about him as he cast his gaze beyond. 

“Fine. Keep going straight. Follow the green lanterns until you reach the auditorium with the bookshelves. There’s a dragon on display—hard to miss.” She tried to keep the hurt in, but it slipped through her control like shadows. After everything, he was leaving her in a library. What had gotten into him? Surely it wasn’t the prospect of getting caught. _The Wolf._ It wasn’t helping her own nerves. _No, I won’t be afraid._ “Good luck, _lethallin._ ”

“Keep your luck. I will make my own,” she said already turning away. Her eyes fell upon a green lantern in the distance, past some floating trees and round balconies bearing study desks. She set off without another word to Shiv. _Traitor._

She thought being alone for once with endless knowledge at her fingertips would be a dream come true. But it had been centuries since she’d last been permitted free range of…really much of anywhere and suddenly she was daunted by the idea. This little taste of freedom—it was like drinking water after too long spent in the heat. She would either drown herself trying to take in too much…or find a way to keep coming back for more.

She absorbed every sight her eyes fell upon when she wasn’t hiding from patrolling sentries or spirits. The wonders of Elvhenan were vast and practically unlimited to the imagination, but the Vir Dirthara was a culmination of the best of their people. The architecture mixed and blended from the different realms created by both the Evanuris and their favoured, as well as whatever the Archivists and their apprentices were permitted to add on. She saw delicate ivory arches and sloping, pale spires that represented the best of Ghilan’nain ranging all the way to the imposing, harsh corners and angles of Elgar’nan. There were slivers of the raw truth present in some of the wonders that she came upon—like the blood that ran from a fountain meant to commemorate Falon’din and the grotesque totem of slaves’ bodies representing Andruil’s fury. It would all be hidden away by the Archivists come the morning. 

Interestingly, she saw very little representation of the Wolf. She saw the occasional statue or even a spirit roaming the distant paths as a wolf, but never anything horrible like the other High Ones. Still, she was wary. Dirthamen was notorious for keeping his own dark machinations from seeing the light of day—thus, there were very few things in the Vir Dirthara to show for it—so maybe the Wolf was just as good at it. After all, he was said to have been friendly with Geldauran, the very man who had disappeared into the Void vowing that all would forget his face. Maybe he had learned a dark trick or two.

Her sudden shiver didn’t come from the cool night air of the library. She cursed Shiveren for leaving her. She was bolder when he was around. 

As much as she wanted to take in every sight and sensation in its fullness, she was pressed for time. Eventually, she came to a wide white path flanked by two green flaming braziers leading to a massive portcullis. The place drew her in like the hands of a close friend. Gentle music played softly from inside. She couldn’t place the melody, but the more she listened the more it seemed to take shape of a familiar shanty, sometimes lulling into the gentle plucking of a lute that reminded her of Grandda. _No, don’t think about them._ She took a deep breath and walked inside.

The auditorium was…vast. There were levels upon levels bearing hundreds— _thousands_ —of bookshelves of all shapes and sizes in the circular tower that ran vertically as far up and down as she could see. No space was wasted on statuary or grand depictions of vain leaders. 

All except for the ‘dragon on display’ that Shiveren had mentioned. It was in fact some kind of illusion—or maybe a spirit—enchanted to swim about the spaces of the auditorium on lazy wings like an oversized fish. It glowed a gossamer green with branching horns and undulating whiskers, a mane of white fur wending along its spine. It disappeared down the hole in the tower, swimming out of sight like a gently fallen leaf in fall. When she finally recovered, she paid mind to the archive itself. What few spaces existed between the bookshelves were taken up by frescoes that she could have spent an age staring at. Knowing the nature of the Vir Dirthara, they likely had magic woven into their pigments that bore memories or knowledge just waiting for a wanderer to discover.

It was hard to stay on her path looking for the green lanterns marking the way to shapeshifting knowledge. There were constellations of little wisps of memory and lights all pointing to different subjects and it was difficult even when she projected her will into the Fade of the Library trying to keep her way. It was a battle, ignoring the slew of friendly whispers urging her to come, to see, to listen to a story - or all of them if she could spare an eternity.

_You are welcome here, honoured Elvhen_.

And she felt it. Like walking into the warm, cozy home of a close friend. But each time, she politely declined the offers and relied on the wisps themselves to help her make her way to the right level—while _still_ keeping an eye out for patrols. On another side of the balance, it _was_ thrilling, dashing through the shadows and scaling bookshelves to avoid them. Not that it was too much of a challenge. Perhaps it wasn’t often that people—or more specifically, slaves—dared to trespass at this time of night. Maybe not at all, but that was hard to believe.

Eventually, she came to the place she’d risked her life to come there for. The shelves were located on a stone platform sticking out over the centre of the tower, slowly rotating along an axis by magic. Once she reached the final green globe of light, she took a few precious moments to stare in awe, listening to the faint song without origin - relishing the smell of warm, oiled wood and the gentle movements of the living library. She envied the spirits of Study that lived here, never having to worry about anything but learning the world.

The end of her search was marked with a sense of disappointment. She did not want to leave. But at last she discovered the section she needed between subjects of Deep Dreaming and the wonders of the Deep Sea. The subject of Shapeshifting was hidden behind a clever magic puzzle clearly built by June. For a heartbeat, she considered trying to find the forbidden knowledge of draconic shapeshifting but she knew that it would be well-guarded and warded, if not simply kept secret in the very minds of the High Ones and their zealous pocket apostles. 

She stuck with the griffon. The puzzle was just an overlapping knot of magic tied over a metal shutter drawn over the books behind it. She had to unravel the knot without letting the pieces touch one another once they were loose enough. She was familiar with such puzzles after she’d witnessed two elves try to break into a wine cellar. The result of their failure was being morphed into sheep that were then taken slaughter and eaten by Ghilan’nain. She sent a prayer of thanks to Vardra and Adewern for their love of making her solve their complex dwarven puzzles.

After it came undone—and she was a quivering, sweating mess of nerves—a helpful wisp entirely too simple to realise that she was a slave guided her to the book she needed. Or rather, a scroll. It was near the top, on the sixty-forth shelf out of a hundred. She sat on the levitating platform and unfurled the red-gold scroll with shaking, eager fingers. Runes immediately jumped out at her just as eager to be read. It made her a little sad that even knowledge got lonely when intentionally hidden for too long. Secreted away from the ‘unworthy’.

A noise from below nearly startled the scroll from her tenuous grip.

She paused, pulse fluttering in her throat as she listened. _So close. Just a moment longer._ If she could learn the form quickly, she wouldn’t need to escape back the way she’d come. She could just fly from the Vir Dirthara back to her bed in the barracks at the palace. Thoughts of wolves prowling in the dark aisles below flitted through her mind, but she dispersed them with a shake and refocused on the scroll. The Veilfire writing seared into her mind and unfolded in images and sensations. 

_~{Crimson, indigo, gold, obsidian. Bear the weight, flesh and air with twist of wing. Rushing past, lifting, drifting. See prey, smell—a hundred miles away. Gather power within and beneath, propel forward. Haste to snatch, to gather prey in talons meant to crush—beak curved to tear. A call of victory! Away, away! Weightless, soaring, free—feathers spread, kaleidoscope of colours cast on earth, below by sun above. I am the envy of man and elvenkind…}~_

“Is someone there?” a quiet, lilting voice called from afar. At the same time, she gasped with understanding so violent the force of it threw her backward into the shelf. Her body twisted, form faltering, then burst. A cloud of magic and dust filled her lungs and then she was falling. 

But so was the bookshelf.

“Wha— _fenedhis!_ ” the voice cried. As countless books rained down, she crashed onto the slanted line of the bookshelf in her new body and rolled all the way back to the ground. When she hit, she kept the form for all of a second before disorientation and nausea forced her out of it. She lifted her mask up just in time to vomit onto the ground. _I did it. Blood of the Fade, I did it!_

“Mythal’s mercy, what have you done, _lethallin_?” She looked up just in time to see Shiveren skid around the corner of a bookshelf, looking horrified up at the wreckage. “You—we have to get out of here right now.” He reached down and pulled her up by the arm just as her sensitive ringing ears picked up the sounds of alarmed voices far below.

“I thought you left! Why did you come back?” she hissed.

“I don’t know, just…let’s go!” he begged. A groan rose from beneath the massive bookshelf to her left. “Oh no, you killed someone _because of course you did_.” Shiv tugged at her arm. “This is bad. If they find out what you’ve done, you are worse than dead.” 

“I cannot just leave…whoever I squashed!” she whispered, yanking from his grip.

“Now you grow a conscience?” Her heart was hammering nauseatingly in her chest. 

“Go on, if you are so afraid. I can fly out of here,” she said, shoving him away. She ran over to the bookshelf and summoned a magelight, ducking under and searching for signs of life in the mountain of fallen books and scrolls and swirling knowledge. She spotted a pale hand poking out from beneath some thick tomes. Pushing through a webbing of reddish memory, she grasped the hand and pulled. The man groaned again, clearly caught on too many books and probably overwhelmed by the vast amount of knowledge clouding the space. Behind her, Shiveren called to her again to hurry. She started digging the books away from the body until an entire arm was exposed, then she tried again.

“C’mon, help me a little here! This is an awkward angle and I’m risking my skin for you!” she growled and then another arm popped free and began pushing at the books until a bald head appeared, followed by broad shoulders. The man gasped, batting at the cloud of knowledge as she pulled him free of the mountain entirely. When they rolled out, she made sure her hood and mask were still intact before getting back to her feet. Healing magic surrounded the mage’s hands as he ran them over whatever injuries he’d sustained that she couldn’t see. To the side, a few books fell over the edge of the platform and into the abyss below. She winced at the man's look of horror.

“Are you mad? Do you have any idea how much damage you have done?” the elvhen exclaimed after he was done healing and proceeded to dusting himself free of stray knowledge. He was wearing dark clothes, just like them. Like he _too_ had been sneaking. 

“Yes! A lot, probably!” she snapped at him. Stormy blue eyes narrowed at her, then at Shiveren.

_“Ar’an bre’etunash,_ ” Shiv uttered. “He doesn’t have _vallaslin_. We are so fucked.” 

“You are slaves?” the man asked. He didn’t sound…angry. That would have been easier to deal with, but now she was confused, and worse, curious. “A risky endeavour, coming at night.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Shiv muttered under his breath. The strange, unmarked elf looked at her. 

“You stole a form,” he stated. She stiffened, but admitted to nothing. “If you shift back, the two of you could escape.” She exchanged a wide-eyed look with Shiveren behind her mask.

“You…are not going to stop us?” she asked. He tilted his head to the side and tucked his hands behind his back in a rather scholarly fashion. But the way one corner of his lips quirked up was mischievous. More voices called out in the dark, this time a unnervingly close.

“A favour for a favour,” he answered cryptically.

“Shit, he might be one of the Wolf’s spirit friends,” Shiv whispered _very_ quietly in her ear. The blood drained from her face.

“There is a mural four levels up from the one we currently stand upon,” the man continued, “You should visit it before you leave. Since you are…seekers of knowledge, I imagine it may be of interest to you. I hope it serves you well, since it seems you are in dire need of it.” She was ready to leave now. Something about him was truly unsettling, and it wasn’t just his words.

“I say we don’t look the gift halla…wolf…in the mouth and get. Out. Of. Here,” Shiveren hissed. She nodded curtly and turned, calling the griffon aspect to her again. It fought her at first. Usually it took years to master a new form, but she had thought since she was already used to ravens and hawks, it might be easier—but just as it had come to her in the beginning, it pounced on her again. She cried out against the vertigo, but planted her paws and talons firmly against the ground to stable herself.

“Get on,” she grunted to Shiv. While he clambered on, she spared one last glance at the mysterious elvhen behind them—now watching with cool amusement—before launching herself into the air. Shiveren whooped nervously, hands fisting tightly in the feathers at her back as she dodged several bridges and floating bookshelves until she counted the fourth floor. 

Shiveren groaned when they landed. “No doubt about it. That was a friend of the Wolf’s. No favour paid without a price.” She remained quiet, eyes scouring the entire landing. The curved walls were completely covered in murals, not just one. 

“The other ones I saw had spells woven into them,” she said. “Maybe…maybe one is an illusion? Why else would he direct us up here?”

“Playing us for fools while he goes off to alert the sentinels. He knows exactly where we are now. The auditorium doesn’t go up much farther and this is a bit of a landmark,” Shiveren said. “We’ve been outplayed. We’re trapped.” She ignored him and padded along the walkway, studying the paintings. The frescoes all went by a theme of knowledge. In one, a spirit and an elf were portrayed reaching out to one another where a golden lotus flower bloomed at their touch. Rays of colour sprayed from the flower that gave rise to others scenes. A key formed of blood from dying elves inserted into shackles winding around a massive tree. Walls crumbling beneath lances of light shot from the hands and foreheads of more elves and spirits. Knowledge, liberating and shackling, light and dark and all in between. If she had another century to spare, she would have happily sat there parsing each meaning and symbol until there were none left to be found.

She almost overlooked the trick—an image of a white wolf curled around the frame of an Eluvian set cleverly into the wall. Somehow, the wolf was also shaped like the teeth of an even bigger black wolf, making it look as though the Eluvian was being eaten. Or maybe it was the maw, it was hard to tell. If it wasn’t for the slightly-reflective border of the mirror itself, she would have glazed right over it. The surface itself was black, just like the wolf around and somehow inside of it.

“That is it,” she said, trotting over to it. “How do we activate it?” 

“I…give me a moment,” Shiv said, sliding from her back. He placed a hand on its surface and fell silent. She immediately grew suspicious. If the elvhen man had indeed been a friend of the Wolf…how and why would Shiveren know how to activate something so clearly made by the Wolf himself? His sudden reappearance was beginning to seem less of a coincidence to her. And she wasn’t about to dismiss the fact that he had been fraternising with Ghimyean. 

The situation was like an incomplete mural in itself.

Then, Shiveren activated the Eluvian and she knew he was hiding something. He gestured to it without a word and swung onto her back as they passed through, escaping the labyrinthine library and into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the Vir Dirthara, she and Shiveren agreed to part ways until the uproar from the destruction she had wrought died down. She spent months living in perpetual fear and paranoia that everyone she talked to was someone out to get her to fess up to her crimes. While she tried to keep her head down, the rumours only seemed to taunt her. It was not so much the ever-shifting stories of _what_ had happened as it was the potential punishments should the culprit ever be caught. They started out with the practically benign ‘age of solitary confinement’ deal. Then there were suggestions that the criminal would be handed over to Razikale and Dirthamen for questioning, then Andoral and Toth for a small eternity of torture. That seemed to be on the more extreme end of the scale. The most believable—and the most nerve-fraying—rumour was the one involving Andruil and Ghilan’nain. They were the ‘wounded’ party of the entire ordeal, since it had been _their_ secret that had been stolen from the _secret_ archive. Furthermore, Dirthamen—and by extension, Falon’din—had taken interest in the matter, since it had been Dirthamen who’d extracted the secret in the first place. She knew their methods of punishment on a personal level and she had no desire to revisit any of it. She would kill herself first.

Even so, with that many High Ones worked into a puzzled froth over the matter, she had wholly expected to be exposed immediately. It was not as though her and Shiveren had covered their tracks well enough to escape the Huntress’ scrutiny herself.

Except…no one ever came for her. As time drew on, she gradually poked her head out of her shell and came to the conclusion that somehow the evidence had been lost in the cloud of knowledge that had exploded in the library.

By then, six months had passed and the coming week marked the end of an Age. Extravagant festivities rose all around her but she was content with playing the good little sentinel where she was needed. She hoped to take on a post far removed from the city where Andruil and Ghilan’nain wouldn’t be. For once, she would be happy hiding in some armoury or a forge deep within some forgotten keep. 

But, she was not so lucky.

Shiveren came to her for the first time since that fateful night and stopped her from signing onto a small expedition into the dwarven Deep Roads.

“Now who’s running away?” he teased, guiding her away from the roster by her shoulders. The entire hall was bustling with elves - sentinels, nobles, servants - all swarming about in a rainbow of excitement and anticipation.

“Ah—you? For an entire half year?” she hissed as they stepped out of the stream of people.

“Are you salty over that still? Or is that your way of telling me you missed my company?” he said. She broke his grip on her with a swipe of her forearm at his wrists and paid him a well-deserved glare.

“Let me guess, you have not spent all this time cowering in fear of being discovered? Still sleeping with Ghimyean for information?” she said. Shiveren laughed.

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Oh, you poor thing, I am sorry I did not break my silence sooner! Your suffering has been in vain.” He snorted and pulled her along with him in direction of another too-crowded corridor. Elves and spirits alike were busy covering Arlathan’s Sol’vhen’an in even more decorations for the final week of celebration before the age officially ended, even though they had already been partying for months. Being around people was the last thing she wanted right then. But Shiveren had no regard for that.

“You conveniently forgot about that night,” she growled. 

“I wasn’t the one who destroyed ages of precious knowledge. What did I have to worry about?” he said and dodged to the side to avoid getting her knife in his gut. He swung back in and threw his arm over her shoulders, driving her through a crowd of elves into a blessedly empty courtyard with tall pine trees that provided some privacy. 

“Do you have a reason for pulling me away from signing onto that expedition or are you done wasting my time?” she demanded, spinning on him. Shiveren smoothed his mop of black hair from his face with a wide, handsome grin. 

“I’ll tell you if you promise to stay for the last week,” he said, too smugly. She crossed her arms slowly, the beginnings of a headache creeping its way up from the nape of her neck.

“This better be good,” she whispered, pulling him farther away from the corridors.

“It’s only a secret of the highest quality. Don’t you want to know why you were never caught?” Her stomach dropped. He knew. And she had a feeling he’d known all this time. She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by a familiar drawl.

“Of course she does, Shiveren.” She turned slowly to face the hauntingly beautiful Ghimyean, clad in the shimmering Robes of Mystery. Like liquefied Eluvian. His snowy hair was twisted back from his sculpted face by two intricate braids and a simple circlet of gold. Eyes just as pale as his hair trained on Shiv, pointedly avoiding her smoldering glare. “The question is, does she deserve to know?” She clenched her left fist, cracking the knuckles audibly. Ghimyean barely spared her a glance and a raise of a dark eyebrow.

“Tell me this _numaval i’tel’gon’lan_ does not know,” she said to Shiveren without looking away from the other man. “Tell me he did not find out before me.” But her friend didn’t answer. Ghimyean finally looked at her fully and a mimicry of a smile curved his lips. 

“Charming as ever, I see. Childish insults aside—yes, I know, why wouldn’t I?”His smile faded, but those shallow frosted eyes reflected what his lips did not. “Where do you think Shiveren gets any of his worthwhile knowledge? Surely you do not think he is clever enough to get it himself.” She took a step forward, intending to drive the knowledge of pain into his pretty face with her fists.

“Disparage me all you like, Ghimyean, but do not insult him,” she all but snarled. The pale elf didn’t look at all intimidated. No, damn him, he took a step forward. She bared her teeth in a feral grin. _That’s right, come closer. I will tear your tongue out._

“Shiveren, please tell our little _eanvheraan_ what she does not know,” he said. A subtle insult to command Shiv, she knew. One more and she would throw herself at him. She could feel Shiveren’s desperation in the air behind her. 

“Remember that elf you crushed beneath that bookshelf six months ago?” her friend asked in a tight voice. “You know—bald, blue-eyed…sharp-jawed…ehh…”

“The unmarked man, yes,” she snapped. “How could I forget what I have been worried over for months?”

“That was Solas,” he said in a weak voice, “Also quietly known as the Wolf…and the man you so kindly pulled from the wreckage of a bookshelf.” Ghimyean’s eyes were practically shining with glee. It was only her hatred for Ghimyean that kept her legs from buckling at the revelation.

“Then…how am I still…” she croaked, embarrassingly. 

“Alive?” Ghimyean said with a smirk. She forced her eyes to stay on him, though the sight of the man made bile rise in her throat. “Because favours, little thief. You either possess a power you are completely undeserving of, or you’ve simply dumb luck that allowed you to stumble unwittingly upon a secret of a rival of Solas’. And so for reasons known only to him, the Wolf covered your tracks.” His laugh was an infuriating little chirp that sent shivers of rage…and fear down her spine.

“Why? What does that even mean? Does he see me as a threat? Is he going to smash me beneath a book like an insect when I am least suspecting as revenge?” When Ghimyean shrugged, she didn’t know what was worse—that he _didn’t_ know, or that she wished he had an answer. 

“He likely sees a use in you yet, though the truth is much simpler,” Ghimyean said, raising a manicured hand that he inspected with detached interest. He tried so hard to make her feel worthless and it was working, damn him. She felt Shiveren send out a single thread of warning to her at the same time that she reached peak ire.

“Then pray tell what is this simple truth, Ghimyean?” she said in a near whisper. His hoarfrost eyes met her silvers. He strutted forward, staring down his nose at her.

“That you don’t have a use and the Wolf is wasting his time looking for one,” he said, leaning in to match her tone. The only warning he had was the slight twitching of her nares before she leaned her head back and cracked it into his beautiful nose. Ghimyean cried out, stumbling back and clutching his gushing face with slender fingers. She grinned when he pulled his hand away to look at the blood. His serpentine tongue flicked out to taste his lips…then he smiled back. “You have made a grave mistake, thief.”

“Mistakes are all I know,” she said and then Ghimyean threw himself at her silent as a reflection in a mirror. She went to retreat backward, but his advance forward was but a deception turned into a Fade step that placed him behind her. She spun to face him only to get a skull to her own nose. She staggered with a gasp of fury, now copying his earlier action, tears streaming unbidden. 

“Ghimyean!” Shiveren shouted in warning. 

“Whose bloody side are you on, Shiv?” she cried as they circled one another.

“Yours! Always!” he said. Ghimyean chuckled cruelly and struck out with his left hand only to feint with his right, catching her in the side of her head. Her ear rang where his palm connected, but she doubled over as if in pain only to cut out with her fist at his inner knee. His cry of pain was the sweetest music that set her feet dancing. She struck him again in the side of the head with the back of her gauntlet when he bent over his knee, clouting him in the ear as he’d done to her.

“You may have a clever tongue, but I have the cleverer hands and feet,” she hissed, wrapping the ends of the sash at her waist around his neck and yanking him backward over her knee. With a quick chop to his sternum, she knocked the air from his lungs and kicked him to the ground. Ghimyean rolled but then sprang back to his feet unexpectedly and tackled her around the waist and delivered a punch to her left kidney and an elbow into her own sternum. Being far bigger, his blows packed more power and she felt her xyphoid process press down somewhere vital, maybe into the base of a lung. Spots of red and white danced in her vision and then she saw Ghimyean above her, raising a fist. He drove it into the side of her face and she felt her cheekbone crack. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she managed to bring her right fist up with a cry through the pain. Ghimyean grunted as it connected with his nose again. He fell back off of her, cursing.

She scrambled into a sitting position and froze when the elf looked like he was about to retaliate again, this time on his feet _with_ his feet. 

_“Enough!”_ Just as Ghimyean lunged at her, a figure dashed between them and caught him by the front of his robe, shoving him back with a burst of magic that sent him staggering. _“Dian. Tamahn tel’myathash ajuem min.”_ Ghimyean’s face went completely bloodless, but he _listened_. Shiveren took the break in the fighting to help her back to her feet. Through the tears of pain in her eyes, she saw the newcomer facing down Ghimyean like a wolf.

Ghimyean growled and turned on his heel, stalking off and clutching his face as he slinked back to whatever dark rock he’d crawled out from underneath. The man turned once Ghimyean was gone, walking over to her and Shiveren with an aura that emanated calm. She recoiled violently when she realised who it was.

The Wolf himself.

“Are you all right?” he asked, coming to a stop at a safe distance. She didn’t answer, not sure that she could trust herself not to genuinely cry or talk.

“He landed a few good hits,” Shiv supplied, still hovering over her. 

“May I have a look?” the Wolf asked, lifting a hand as though to calm a spooked animal. She couldn’t deny him. She was a slave and he was…a High One, or at least close to it. She lowered her hand reluctantly and he stepped forward, lifting her chin with two fingers and turning her head from side to side. She tried to meet those familiar storm-blue eyes and failed, settling with staring over his shoulder instead. She’d never been afraid to stare anyone in the face until now. She felt a gentle blanket of magic fall over her face as he inspected the damage. “Fractured cheekbone and a broken nose.”

“You should see _his_ face,” she blurted out of nervousness. His lips quirked briefly into a smirk before settling neutrally again.

“He had it coming.” She met his eyes briefly before resuming her blank stare into the void. “This may be unpleasant.” His fingers pinched her nose and with a sharp gesture, set it, sending a fresh wave of tears rolling down her face. There was high-pitched whining in her sinuses followed by a pop as healing magic invaded her face. His fingers pressed lightly into her cheek and she felt his magic delve gently into the bone, coaxing it into repairing itself. When her eyes finally cleared of tears, she looked at him again and noticed a certain crookedness to his own nose. He of course noticed her gaze and gave her a small smile. 

“This is familiar to you,” she said, her voice coming out a little raspy with fear. He hummed with a nod then finally finished his spell and stepped back, releasing her.

“Quite the way to start the new age,” he remarked as if discussing pleasant weather. His gaze fell briefly on Shiveren before he surveyed the empty courtyard, tucking his arms behind his back. She was thrown again by his appearance. Unlike his kin, his garb wasn’t extravagant. He’d a black robe on with a wolf pelt strapped across a shoulder. Some golden armour peeked out from beneath the hems, but beyond that he was almost unassuming. And just like that, it all felt like a replay of that night in the Vir Dirthara. Except, instead of wearing a wooden mask, she wore one of blood and dirt. She suddenly remembered herself and bowed low to him.

_“Ir abelas,_ I would ask for your forgiveness,” she said. A hand touched her shoulder in a clinical manner, bidding her to straighten. The mysterious mage only gave her another cursory glance before looking back at Shiveren who had been silent the entire time.

“If there was something you had done to wrong me, I might accept your apology,” he said with a little amusement colouring his words.

“Then I hope you will accept my gratitude for mending my injuries,” she said. She knew their ‘kindness’ always had a price. It would have been safer to have left her face broken. 

“Think nothing of it,” he said with a slight bow of his own, but she already was thinking herself into a panic. He suddenly looked back the way Ghimyean had gone. “It seems my attention is needed elsewhere.” He turned his back, and then paused, looking over his shoulder at them. “I hope this age brings you favourable changes.” And then he was gone.

She wiped her nose, staring after him.

“He…did not recognise me, did he?” she asked Shiveren. “Does he even know?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you before,” Shiv said. “Not even he knows the identity of the woman who pushed the bookshelf onto his head. Ghimyean made it sound like there’s some grand scheme behind the Wolf’s reasons for hiding your tracks probably to rile you up some more, but I will bet my life that Solas was embarrassed that a shelf fell on him and he didn’t want anyone to find out. Pride is his name, after all.” She pursed her lips. And now she was questioning everything.

“Then how does Ghimyean know?” she hedged.

“You can blame that one on me,” he admitted guiltily. “Ghimyean’s a complete asshole for what he did to you, but he won’t tell the Wolf anything. He prides himself on any little bit of knowledge he has that they don’t. He’ll probably take that to his grave.” She sniffed, then spat grit onto the ground. “He’s got a warped way of showing it, but Ghim likes you.”

“I could have lived my life happily without knowing that,” she remarked dryly. Shiveren smiled down at her.

“So…want to get out of here and test out that griffon form again?” She rolled her eyes and the two of them slipped away quietly.

~{o}~~{o}~~{o}~~{o}~~{o}~

Maordrid was there to catch her when she was finally spit from the vision. Her whole body felt hot and her skin was tight like it had been sunburned. Memories and emotions not her own still swirled around in her ribcage like a school of confused minnows…her eyes found Maori’s and she could breathe again.

“You dreaded the Dread Wolf!” was the first thing to tumble from her too-heavy tongue. Maordrid gave her a crooked smile. 

“And that was before the Dread was added to the Wolf. Even so, I was not unlike the Dalish today,” she said, helping her to a sitting position. “We had our own legends, presumptions, prejudgements…yes, I was scared and maybe even a little superstitious.” Dhrui could hardly fathom everything she’d seen through the older woman’s eyes. The striking similarities between them—the overly emotional and oftentimes brash actions…

“They kept you in the dark,” Dhrui said, seeing the parallel. _Like she did to me._ “But they used you too. Shiveren and…Ghimyean?” Maordrid nodded.

“Both played me. The entire time they had already been working for Solas,” she said with a sigh, “I already had a tiny reputation for trouble, as you saw. It was some sick ‘testing’ of theirs to see if I was worthy of joining the Rebellion in its infancy. To see if I could be useful, despite the airs Ghimyean put on. Solas’ interference in the end was happenstance—him getting mad at two of his agents behaving like idiots in full view. I was just…a face in passing. I was not recruited until years later.”

“Did…did Solas find out about everything that happened in the library? Actually, did anyone even expect anything to happen the way it did that night?” Dhrui asked. 

“No and no. Ghimyean often operated secretly and independent of Solas and Dirthamen, which is how he knew. What happened in the Vir Dirthara was a combination of serendipity and zemblanity. Ghimyean thought I would attempt something reckless, but he did not expect me to infiltrate the archives. I did not expect to succeed in finding the griffon form, nor did I think to stumble upon Solas in such a manner,” she said with a small smile. Dhrui looked down at her legs in thought. There was so much plot and intrigue in what she had witnessed. From Maordrid deciding to rob Andruil—who had clearly wronged her at some point—and also Dirthamen by extension, _and_ therefore Ghimyean, the man whose guts she’d hated. It was weird, feeling like she _knew_ all of them after that. There was lingering fondness for Shiveren…and something more complex for Ghimyean. She certainly found Maordrid’s first encounter with Solas fascinating, but for some reason she could not get past the other men.

“You don’t hate Ghimyean anymore,” she realised aloud. “Why? He was such… _ugh,_ poison!” Maori cast her gaze the grey skies, lips turning down.

“Shiv was right. He had an awful way of showing fondness, but he had reason. He and his sister were born and raised as slaves of Dirthamen. Inaean is responsible for whatever goodness remained inside him. She turned out pure and golden compared to the tarnished brass that was her brother, but she has him to thank for protecting her from what Dirthamen made him into,” she said slowly. 

“What, a power hungry, information-extorting wannabe Evanuris?” Dhrui spat. Maori’s face went clean as a slate and her eyes locked on hers unwavering.

“We were all deprived of life, Dhrui. He was once a spirit of Curiosity that Dirthamen denied information. You know what happens when a spirit is denied its purpose.” Dhrui glared at her hands, still…why was she so angry at the stupid elf? 

“It twists. Corrupts.”

“Ghimyean did not quite corrupt since he took a body, not unlike Cole, or Compassion as you know. Ghimyean continued to seek knowledge, but less benevolently. Eventually his digging and exploiting did gain favour with Dirthamen. He played low and dirty and was elevated because of it. He did it all to get back at Dirthamen later by joining Solas.” 

“I get the notion that he used that to justify hurting the people he claimed he cared for,” Dhrui muttered, not quite wanting to be aggressive. She didn’t know everything about him, nor did she understand it entirely, but she _definitely_ knew how he had made Maordrid hurt. Why was she defending that lunatic? 

“We all did things we were not proud of, _da’len_ ,” Maori said, sitting beside her on the ground. “That is why I shared a piece with you. I learned…a lot about myself then.” 

“I can’t even imagine what sort of shit you aren’t proud of. You were…young, it seemed like. All you wanted to do was prove yourself worthy to someone who didn’t deserve it and you got _used_ ,” Dhrui exclaimed.

“It is sweet that you think I was innocent like that. You saw but a minuscule example of a mistake I made,” she said with a small laugh.

“What, toppling a bookshelf onto Solas’ head? You know he deserved it,” Dhrui said. “Whatever you did in the past…that’s just it—it’s the past. Right?” 

“I am not going to let my past grievances get in the way of what I came here to this timeline to do, no,” Maordrid said in an emotionless tone. Dhrui got to her feet angrily.

“Stop trying to pretend you’re steel for one minute and…” she trailed off, fighting for the right words.

“I was just…I was trying to be open with you. I do not know what you want from me, Dhrui. One moment it seems like you want me to be some free-spirited woman that I can never be and the next you worry that I might up and drop my duty!” Maori tossed a hand weakly, staring off into the Fade. Dhrui screamed in her own mouth with frustration.

“Look at Yin! My brother! A world leader, duty bound!” she cried. “Learn from him, you thick-skulled numb-heart! He hasn’t forsaken his ability to feel! I know you’re capable of it because _you_ had hopes and fears and vulnerabilities too.” Maordrid opened her mouth, then shut it. “You don’t have to keep being that _thing_ they made you into.” The elvhen woman remained quiet, not meeting her gaze. “You know what, maybe I’ve gone about this all wrong. _Words_ have no effect on you. You’ll just have to be shown, like Solas.” 

With that, Dhrui woke from their shared dream into a world where the vestiges of night were fading away. She rose from bed and quietly prepared herself for the oncoming day. _Something_ had to give with Solas and Maordrid. No one was untouchable, no matter what they convinced themselves of. And she had a feeling that Maori’s dream had been a cry for help. 

She was most definitely going to answer that call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of an explanation/summary:  
> >Maori's memory was supposed to have taken place before the Evanuris ascended to the rank of god kings, but they were well on their way to it.  
> >Solas was not yet the Dread Wolf, though he was quickly building up to it. To Maori, he was just some crazy ass (legendary) Dreamer guy who was really good at antagonising the Big Hats...but also still Mythal's friendo :3  
> >I'm intentionally being vague about timeline shit because the lore is vague and it's hard to commit and there's _so much to rifle through_  
>  >Ghimyean is a toxic asshole  
> >Ghimyean & Shiveren are manipulative (though Shiv is more charismatic about it)  
> >Solas was already aware of Ghimyean's penchant for asshole-ishness and immediately sided with Maori because he just assumed the whole thing was his fault. 
> 
> \--------  
> Translations:  
>  **Venas myathash, da’elgar.** [go find honour, young spirit]  
>  Shiv: **“Ar’an bre’etunash** : [We are in deep shit]  
> Mao @ Ghim: **numaval i’tel’gon’lan** [thirsty punk]  
>  **eanvheraan** : [griffon]  
> Solas: **Dian. Tamahn tel’myathash ajuem min.** : [Stop. There is no honour in what you have wrought here.]
> 
> {Also, I stand by the headcanon that Solas has _always_ been bald.  <3}  
>  
> 
> [Come hit me with a stick.](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/)


	83. Threads of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZn94Q5m5Aw) is linked down below in the chapter as well so you'll know when to start listening. I'm basically canon-ing that she's like Cole and Solas who literally watch movies from our world in the Fade...except she collects songs instead.

The morning following Solas’ and Maordrid’s return was postponed until the next day. After finding the two in the sorry state of appearance and health, he’d initially been a bit selfish wanting to know what they’d gone through. But when he saw how both Maori _and_ Solas were dead on their feet outside of the Ivory Herring he quickly realised that conversation would have to wait. Especially when he discovered that Solas was combating a cold. He’d gone down to the commons early the next day before anyone was awake and waited. Dhrui appeared first of all people and seemed surprised to find him waiting. They shared a small breakfast in silence until Solas and Maordrid came shuffling in an hour later still looking like the walking dead. He admired their dedication, but then promptly sent them back to bed, declaring it a mandatory recovery day for the two. When neither protested his decision, he knew he’d made the right call. He didn’t hear from either of them at all the rest of that day and the door to their room remained closed. Out of concern, he’d asked Dhrui if they were still alive only to find out that both had been dormant as volcanoes since being sent back. Neither even woke up when she brought them food. He wondered what kind of dreams the two of them were having that they could sleep away an entire day and night. Along that same vein of thought, he no longer held any doubt that they were the real Solas and Maordrid. He’d half expected Dhrui to sleep on the chaise in his room again since all three of them had been fearful that the demons might have survived somehow, but she surprised him by braving the night in Solas and Maori’s company.

A day later, their reinvigorated company gathered in the Herring’s common room with the door shut and warded. After the inn’s despicable behaviour, he didn’t much care when two other guests of the Herring tried entering and got zapped by the wards. He might have laughed a little wickedly when the host himself attempted the door himself and received the same treatment, but then left them alone without raising any sort of problems.

Meanwhile, they’d been somewhat pleasantly enjoying their morning. Dhrui was busy preparing a tea for Solas who was still recovering from his sick—though doing much better after rest—while the rest of them drank some coffee she’d come by from an Antivan vendor some days ago. She’d gotten Dorian completely addicted to the stuff. Not that Yin would complain, it made him focused…and energetic in all the best ways. After Solas received his tea, he joined him and Dorian at the round table where the two of them were looking at the buckler and bow that Maori and Solas had brought in. The woman herself was sitting perched on the back of a chair sipping something that might have been coffee or alcohol. 

In his jitteriness, Dorian’s attention had been totally arrested by the mirrorlike artefact set at the centre of the table. Once Maordrid had demonstrated its powers—and narrowly avoided getting sapped—he barely allowed anyone to touch it while he hogged it all to himself. The bow they all agreed would be effective against mages, since it seemed to have similar magical properties as the shield. 

“You say this was a temple or something of Dirthamen’s,” Yin repeated, looking first at Solas and then Maori. The woman just eyed Solas.

“Presumably. The grounds kept our location hidden to you. The Venatori also kept a logbook and though it was written in Tevene, the sparing elven notated inside mentioned seeking secrets,” Solas said. 

“Do not forget the statuary within,” Maori added and Yin raised a brow. “Owls and mirrors—typically symbols associated with Dirthamen.” 

“I’ll wager Corypheus would like to know the location of as many elven artefacts as he can get his hands on,” Dorian said, flipping the buckler quickly and smiling into it. He seemed perplexed that its surface did not reflect anyone looking into it, but would if one looked at it out of their peripherals.

“Regardless of who it belonged to, those idiots defiled that temple,” Yin said sadly. “I would like to go back to study it, if possible at some point. There could be so much history to be claimed for the Dalish…” He trailed off when Maori and Solas began shaking their heads.

“Not just defiled—destroyed,” Maori said. It was Solas’ turn to look at her, placing his chin in his hand.

“While true, it might be worth sending a scouting party back to investigate if there is a chance anything survived,” he said. Yin made note of it in the journal he’d started to keep. He'd been juggling to remember every little matter beset to him and it was beginning to get…challenging. Dorian suddenly sat back in his chair and levelled a challenging look at Solas. 

“Enlighten me, Solas,” he started, lacing his fingers pleasantly on the table. The Fadewalker smoothly mirrored his action and regarded him coolly. “The demons that attacked us—Maori’s was vanquished, but yours ran into the woods after I assume the temple was destroyed—” It was Maordrid who sighed, pressing her fingertips to a temple while she gave Dorian something like an impatient look.

“They were spirits seeking to be free of an eternity of servitude. In the confusion, I believe our imitators were drawn to Yin for the mark in his hand—” she looked to Solas for confirmation and when he nodded, she continued, “—and whatever happened to the temple after we escaped, the remaining one must have snapped out of it and went hunting for the _real_ Solas.”

“You put this all together…how?” Yin asked.

“We encountered a runaway Venatori in the forest,” Solas interjected. “He was battling his own reflection and through him we discovered that we could not leave the boundaries of the temple unless our doubles were killed.” 

“Shit, then…the other you found you?” Yin realised. Maori’s lips twisted into a grimace of a smile.

“It did, violently. But it was dealt with in kind,” Solas replied as he took a sip of his tea with a ghastly expression. Yin took a drink of his own coffee. His definitely had a dash of whiskey in it.

“Shall we tell them about the part where a search party is coming all the way from Southern Thedas?” Dorian asked, still looking at the shield. Maordrid made a small choking noise. 

“Excuse me?” she asked. Yin sighed through his nose.

“You two were missing for a while. How long do you think you were gone?” he asked. Both Solas and Maordrid exchanged wary glances before looking at him.

“I lost track, but…a week and a few days?” she hedged. 

“Two weeks and one day,” Dorian answered quite chipper. “You’re lucky the Lavellans are so optimistic. I thought to myself, if Maordrid _and_ Solas don’t beat us to Val Royeaux, they’re definitely dead.”

“Thanks, I think?” Maori said. Yin scratched his beard, side eyeing his _vhenan._

“I sent a letter by runner and raven,” he said. “ _Annnd_ long story short, the Sahrnia party will be joining us soon. Cass, Cole, Bull, and Varric. And Cullen will too, but that’s unrelated.” 

“What of the University?” Solas asked. “We could conduct valuable research there, given time. Unless the fog with the peace talks have cleared…?” Yin shook his head.

“Nothing yet. We may have been a little premature,” he said.

“Fighting ancient darkspawn and getting thrust into the Fade—can’t blame you all for being a little paranoid of future-comings. Just…don’t get antsy like the Grey Wardens,” Dhrui drawled, sitting in the seat Maordrid was perched upon.

“You kick up dirt yet _you’re_ the one all aflutter over Blackwall,” Dorian said, plucking at his moustache with a devious grin. Dhrui glared but said nothing, cheeks flaming. Yin still wasn’t sure how felt about the whole thing. Not that he was to judge, being with a Tevinter and all. He sank his own face into a hand and traced a finger down a page in his journal.

“Right, so, research—yes, absolutely. I’ve already written the Ambassador in case Frederic doesn’t come through. She might be able to pull some strings,” he said, “Oh, right, and the special appointment Leliana and Josephine got us to get outfitted. That’s tomorrow.” He looked up at his sister. “You had a task.” She gave a sunny smile and planted her hands flat on the table.

“These two need some damn clothes,” she said looking between Solas and Maori behind her, the former of which immediately sat up, brows drawing downward.

“Why does what I wear concern you?” he asked, shooting a look at Dorian when he snickered.

“I don’t care what you wear so much as I’m worried about what you two _don’t_ have—which is everything! Don’t get me started on winter clothes!” Solas looked at him helplessly.

“Is she always like this?” 

“What, overly involved in people’s personal matters?” Yin laughed. Dhrui huffed.

“Otherwise known as ‘caring’,” she said, a bit injured. Solas frowned. “But fine, I’ll take Maori if you’re going to be all stiff about it.” Maori didn’t look thrilled either, but she wisely kept her protests behind her teeth. Solas _almost_ managed a convincing job of looking like he didn’t care. 

Dorian poured himself more coffee, arching a fine brow, “It isn’t like she was stalked and attacked by a Chevalier or anything.” Dhrui reddened and looked like she was about to scold him, but Maori exclaimed, _“What?”_ and Solas looked concerned both for her outburst and the news.

“Why don’t _you_ go with them, Dorian?” Solas asked while Maori dragged Dhrui away from the table to interrogate her.

“Are you seriously trying to get out of this? Andraste’s blushing bosom, you’re thick.” Dorian shook his head, _tsking_. “A man so sophisticated that he actually overlooks the obvious! First, I wasn’t invited—you were. Second—”

“Spare me the lecture, Dorian,” Solas sighed, pushing up from his seat. 

“ _Second_ , make sure Maordrid doesn’t try to fight every Chevalier in the city,” Dorian called after him with a smug grin. Solas shook his head and disappeared after the two women who’d already slipped out.

“That wasn’t even what you were going to say, was it?” Yin said when they were alone again. Dorian resumed sipping his coffee as though nothing had even happened.

“My dear, if I had been allowed to finish that stream of consciousness, I’m afraid neither of us would have left this room until tomorrow,” he said, tapping his fingers on his cup.

“You’re still mad at him for stabbing me. Even though it wasn’t him,” Yin said. 

“Are you not?” Dorian remarked without sarcasm, eyeing him. Yin shrugged.

“We should disassociate from the falsehood. What happened to all of us…it could have been you or Dhrui who stabbed me. What then?” He reached over and ran a knuckle lovingly across his jaw at Dorian’s troubled expression.

“Oh, you’d probably do something kind like forgive us,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. Yin didn’t know why. “I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re Inquisitor and I’m not. I’d have made far fewer friends than you have by now.”

“And it’s a good thing that you’re here to balance me out. You have to understand, it’s…difficult for me to turn people away. Spend your life as an elf, Dalish or not, and people reject you. Here, I’ve found acceptance and people that need it,” he said, knowing Dorian was one of them. “Rather than get back at the world for mistreating my people, I’d rather lead by a good example. Solas is a good friend and a valued person in the Inquisition. We can’t afford to lose him...or anyone for that matter. I’ve seen that now.” Dorian slumped, reaching out once more to grab the mysterious buckler. “You’re making me feel like I’m saying all the wrong things—”

“No, it isn’t that, I just…ugh,” Dorian finally looked at him with annoyance, “I don’t want to see you hurt, amatus. When we fell into the Fade at Adamant, I thought we—you were done for. I _still_ don’t think I can forgive you that moment, even though you seem to have moved on. I’ve _almost_ lost you one too many times. But this last time, you _died_ and I thought, ‘This is it. This is where I finally lose him forever.’ And then you didn’t by some bloody miracle and…look at you. You just get back up and keep walking like nothing happened.” Dorian’s voice cracked and Yin clasped his hand tightly. “Are you all right in there? Or are you going to up and snap on me one day? I’ll lose you to your own mind.” Dorian pulled away to put both hands on his knees, leaning in to meet his gaze earnestly as though searching for signs of insanity.

“Of course it bothers me,” he was loathe to admit. “The Fade was awful. I…I feel like it was worse than anything I’ve experienced so far because…well, you know already. Nightmares and fears and all. And the marshes were horrible, but I can’t dwell. I’m alive—you’re alive. We all are.” The look Dorian was giving him now was something between disapproval and disbelief, but he said nothing about it. “I have to move forward, _vhenan_. But…I have you at my back, don’t I?” 

Dorian kissed him soundly in answer. 

“So long as you’ll have me.” Yin smiled at him, then got an idea.

“Speaking of friends killing me…I’d like to court you.” Dorian leaned back as if he’d just suggested taking a walk through a park holding hands all romantic. In other words, appalled.

“Did I miss part of the conversation? How did we get from _killing_ you to…courting _me,_ exactly?” he said suspiciously. Yin grinned.

“It’s an ancient custom. Now, tell me what kind of poison would you use to murder me, _cuore mio_?”

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


At least the sun was shining again. Not that it was actually pleasant as she had hoped, because winter had finally decided to start breathing and now the air was biting. A cold day in the sun. Because even nature had a sense of humour. She tried to be grateful that it wasn’t cold _and_ wet. Her irritation with the weather was shortlived anyhow in the presence of Solas and Maordrid. After the memory she had shared, everything seemed so much more visceral. It was like watching a scene form with each stroke of a paintbrush. Mistakes were covered by a newer layer, never truly hiding the flaw away but still aiding to bring a picture into view all the same. Even after millennia of life, their canvas was not complete. She wondered if it ever would be. 

“You seem like you have been on edge all morning,” Solas was currently saying to Maori. All three of them had been exchanging light quips since leaving the Ivory Herring. “You were fine the other day.”

“I was practically slipping into the Fade out of exhaustion. Things that usually bother me had less of an impact,” Maori said. “Now that I am rested, things are…catching up.”

“ _Ma dasem, telsilin_ ,” Solas chided without weight. Maori gave a clipped sigh and narrowed her eyes a fraction at him. “I have seen you exhausted. It is not unlike sharing the company of an agitated wolf.” Dhrui fought against a knowing grin. “At your best, you resemble an arctic sea.” _Woof. An insult_ and _a flirt rolled into one._ Maori had a core of steel. If someone talked to her the way Solas did to Maori, she would have been reduced to a puddle of warm syrup _long_ ago.

The woman completely dodged around Solas’ flirtation. “I am sorry, when have you seen me at my best?” Maori feigned deep thought, tapping her chin. “I feel like I have been living in a perpetual state of cuts and bruises the last few months.” Dhrui very carefully slipped a fresh scone each into their hands. Solas’ eyes widened slightly in delight before they focused back on Maori.

“Are we going to dance around the subject of your wellbeing all day?” he retorted, taking a nibble of the delicious breading.

“You _do_ have a peculiar way of asking if someone’s okay,” Dhrui told him as they set off from the bakery. 

“If I outright ask, her answer is always ‘I am fine,’ which is not at all convincing,” Solas defended. “Therefore I must resort to more presumptuous tactics.” Dhrui chortled.

“Sounds like warfare,” she said. “Have you tried attrition yet? Yeah, learned that word from Yin-quisitor.” Solas actually gave her a thoughtful look that he then turned on Maori. “Gotta wear down those walls.”

“Interesting,” Solas said. Maori had the same look that she had right before she’d smashed her face into Ghimyean’s, except this time she was directing it at both of them. 

“That, or talk about her over her head. Literally and figuratively. Then watch the answers fly off her tongue between the insults,” Dhrui said. Solas smoothly stepped to the other side of Maori, putting the short elf between them. He looked over at Dhrui, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with amusement. “Mind, this tactic does involve getting her mad at you first.” Maordrid suddenly banished the storm from her face and assumed an unaffected mask.

“Sometimes I almost believe that you two actually like me, and then you do things like this,” she said, but Dhrui didn’t hear any hurt in her voice. Annoyance, definitely, but there was something else she couldn’t put a name to. 

“I am going to assume you are joking and refrain from wasting my breath on an argument,” Solas said a tad wearily. 

“Solas, Maordrid doesn’t have a sense of humour,” Dhrui said, watching his lips twitch against a grin.

“She does seem to think that threats count, however.” 

“Maybe she killed whatever humour she had thinking it was an enemy?”

“Plausible.” Maori’s lip twitched.

“Did you give Solas coffee?” she asked.

“I think the ghost of her humour came back to haunt us momentarily,” Solas remarked dryly. Dhrui laughed, holding her belly. 

“If he won’t touch tea, what makes you think he’ll let coffee anywhere near his mouth?” Dhrui asked.

“ _Elvyr sileal,_ ” Solas said inclining his head at her. Maori peered down at the untouched scone in her hand, then one of her ears twitched and she was pausing at the entryway to a plaza that they were just about to pass. Dhrui almost asked what the hold up was when she heard the lute music. Solas looked like he was about to do the same when his eyes brightened. Maori was already walking down the narrow corridor, seeking the sound out like a hound. What they came upon was a small square located at the edge of a water canal. They were closer to the elven slums on this side of the city, but the grandeur was still present in most of the architecture—like the simple trickling fountain at the centre and the multicoloured banners strung from the burnt red rooftops. But there were no humans, she immediately noticed. A handful of elves were at the fountain sitting behind blankets upon which they were selling little handmade trinkets while a few round-faced elven children dangled their feet into the fountain just shy of touching the water. The music was coming from a dapper young man of perhaps fifteen years of age seated by the canal with an old but very loved lute. The acoustics of the plaza made the beat up instrument sound much more expensive than it looked. What appeared to have once been a fancy Orlesian hat—pilfered, by the looks of it—sat upended before him on the ground where it had accumulated a few coppers and an apple, but nothing more. 

Maori froze quite a distance from the boy as though suddenly remembering herself. She turned on the spot and almost looked like she was going to walk back the way she’d come before her lips moved soundlessly and she went back again, this time making it all the way to the canal.

“Should we follow?” Dhrui whispered to Solas who’d been silently taking in the entire scene. When he finally looked over at Maori, his eyes softened.

“From a distance, I think,” he said. So they walked around the fountain and decided to take up a vantage on the steps outside of a boarded up establishment. Maori stood before the young man, hands holding onto her scone like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. Dhrui almost thought she might squeeze it into crumbles if she kept it up. The young pauper glanced up briefly from his lute, still playing with practised—albeit grubby—fingers. If it hadn’t been for the ill fitting clothes and bare feet, Maordrid would have likely scared the shit out of the scrawny musician standing there in something like the red armour in her dream. Even so, her gaze was…intense. It was the only thing that really gave her away as something _more_ upon first impression. The young man just offered a nervous smile and focused back on his playing. Even from there Dhrui saw how his wide hazel eyes caught on the food in her hand. 

“Not to be an arse, but I was beginning to doubt that she had a softer side,” Dhrui said. 

“I think it is something she forgets about herself as well,” Solas said. Something in the way he spoke made her heart break a little. Maori crouched before the boy and jerkily held out her scone. For a split second, he looked suspicious—and a little afraid—but Maordrid said something to him that she couldn’t make out from there. The boy’s sooty brows drew down and his fingers clutched his lute tightly until Maordrid brought out a single sovereign and dropped it into the hat while still holding out the food. Reluctantly, the young elf held his lute out to her as though the very action was tearing his soul away from his body. Maori took the instrument reverently and passed the scone over to him while she folded her legs beneath her and plucked at the strings experimentally.

“I’ve never heard her play!” Dhrui whispered, peering excitedly over at Solas. What she saw was pure adoration in his eyes, but something like sadness in the lines of his cheeks. “Didn’t you say you had?”

“Yes, although…she has not played outside of the Fade since losing her finger,” Solas said with a little worry.

“Aw, she plays for you in the Fade? How is that fair?” Dhrui nudged him in the ribs playfully, then realised something. “Two Somniari—you _have_ to tell me how wild your dreams are! Do you collaborate and make unimaginable visions? Or do you try to outdo one another? Oh, I’ll bet the two of you could reconstruct Arlathan!” She could tell Solas was trying hard not to smile, leaning forward on his knees and purposely not looking at her.

“Creating a vision that complex would draw unwanted attention.” His serious tone earned a flat look from her. “That you hold our abilities in such esteem is appreciated, however.”

“You haven’t denied that you haven’t at least tried to reimagine it,” she said. His smile was more bitter, but he didn’t say anything. “Must be nice having so much control over your dreams. Does that offer of yours still stand? I’d be happy with just seeing some of those memories you’ve told us about. I’ll give you all the poetry I have in my head.” Solas went to answer, but Maordrid started [playing in earnest a lively song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZn94Q5m5Aw) . Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she clearly struggled with the stunted reach of her finger, but her other hand crawled across the strings like a spider, hammering out the tune. The boy’s face practically split in half around a mouthful of scone and started tapping his hand on his knee to the beat. When Maordrid saw that he was enjoying it, her confidence grew with the volume of her playing and soon heads were turning to look at the two elves by the water. With her right hand, she started adding improvised percussion by clapping her hands over the strings and body in time to the song.

There was a small laugh of disbelief from beside her and she saw Solas covering his mouth as if surprised he’d even made a sound.

“What?” she asked.

“The song. It is an old bawdy tune. Common in the times of Elvhenan but usually only played in taverns,” he said.

“And you know it?” she said with genuine surprise. For some reason, she couldn’t envision Fen’harel visiting taverns casually. Creeping around ancient libraries, definitely, but not some salty ale-soaked rowdy-house. Unless the taverns back then were much nicer back then.

“Things remembered by many people are carried on by spirits of the Fade, just like emotions,” he said smoothly, “And if you had not noticed, the song is…”

“Catchy. It’s gonna be in my head for _days._ I wish Varric was here, he’d love it,” Dhrui laughed. Even Solas was lightly tapping his foot. “Bet you a sov she’ll say she’s out of practise after. Think she’s been practising in the Fade?” Maori was bobbing her head, eyes half-shut as her right hand slid up the neck and back down to slap the strings again, fingers of her left still dancing their own jig. The boy was openly laughing with glee by now and several other elves had smiles on their faces.

“It is possible it is simply remembered through passion for playing,” Solas said. “I have a feeling that is the case.” If Maori was messing up in her playing, she was clever at covering it up. Or maybe Dhrui just didn’t have the ear to discern mistakes. Either way, seeing her crack open just a little only made her want to figure out how to make it keep happening.

When Maordrid finally finished the song, they got up from the steps and joined her as she handed the lute back to the boy.

“Promise you will come play with me again some day?” the boy begged in a sweet Orlesian accent, hardly paying them any mind. Maori hummed, pulling her braid over a shoulder. “I’m always coming here to play. It has the best sound in this part of the city!”

“I do not have my own lute, or else I might very well take you up on that offer,” she said. 

“We could take turns on mine! I don’t mind sharing. And I know a lot of songs—we could swap!” he exclaimed. Maordrid glanced at them then back at her young admirer with a sad expression.

“I would love to but…” The elf fluttered a hand at her.

“Whenever you can then. I’ll be waiting, _mademoiselle._ ” The suave little shit winked at Maori, who—immortal elvhen notwithstanding—definitely looked way beyond his age. She bowed graciously to him and then turned to walk back to the main street with them.

“Apologies. You did not have to stick around,” Maori said once they were underway. 

“That you would apologise or assume that we wouldn’t stay is an insult,” Solas said. Dhrui grabbed Maordrid by the arm and shook her.

“Why haven’t you done that for me?” she demanded. 

“You never asked!” Maori squeaked. _Squeaked._ “And you heard me, I do not have a lute.”

“I may have told her you played in the Fade,” Solas said.

“Go listen to the bard at Skyhold play. I still need practise anyway,” Maori said and both Dhrui and Solas shared a laugh. “Somehow I feel as though leaving you two alone is only cause for trouble.”

“You know that if Solas and I were to take a walk down the street at night for a late treat, we would actually make it to our destination without a problem,” Dhrui teased. “You on the other hand would get turned around and discover an army of maleficarum, possibly an Old God, and…whatever else.”

“But I would still eventually make it to this hypothetical place,” Maori said. 

“Barely,” Solas remarked.

“As if none of our other warriors do not get injured! It’s our role to keep your skins from getting wrapped around a blade or split by an axe.” They both laughed again when Maori’s next breath came out in a cloud of smoke. “If I can get my hands on some sturdy armour I would not run into half the problems that I do. And look, no guards or Chevaliers came to attack while I was playing.”

“Peace, peace,” Dhrui said, placing a pacifying hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Let’s get you some clothes to wear with your armour. We’re almost there.” 

The three of them continued on and conversation became less needling and more educational when Dhrui posed the question about dream collaboration. Solas held by the stance that recreating something like Arlathan would be dangerous. Maori countered by saying it only would be if they tried to add in intricate details like the magic that made up practically everything, essentially stripping it of everything but appearance. 

“There would be no harm. Like a set and stage without the actors,” Maori said. 

“In the memories I have seen, Arlathan was more than architecture,” Solas said. “It was magic and emotion, the heart and soul of the elves that lived in that time. To recreate it simply for its looks would be a grave injustice to its memory.”

“True,” Maori sighed, “I do not think I have found enough memories of Arlathan specifically to even begin to entertain trying to reflect it anyhow.” Solas gave her a pitying look that she didn’t notice. “I have unfortunately not had the time or opportunity to wander for the sole sake of Dreaming. What I know is likely woefully underwhelming compared to yours, Solas. ”

“It seems you have had a measure of some success,” Solas said, earning a curious look from her. 

“ _Mahn ma silas vi’dirthara El’vhen?”_

_“Elgar or vi’dirthara…i ma ghi’len,_ ” she said as though it should have been obvious to him. He did look sheepish afterwards. “They are also a good source for old songs.”

“Of course. I do not know why that did not occur to me,” he said.

“Because you seem to think you’re the only one who knows anything of ancient elves?” Dhrui suggested. Maori laughed at Solas’ smoldering look.

“See, I am not the only one who has thought it,” Maori said, referring to a conversation they must have had before. 

“Yes, are you happy now?” Solas said, but she didn’t answer as they stopped outside of a shoppe that had a multitude of mannequins outside displaying clothes. The style was not Orlesian. It seemed like whoever had designed the clothes had decided on a bastardisation of several cultures. So maybe it was Orlesian after all. Solas reached out to touch a burgundy scarf-shawl thing with pretty black tassels lining its edges, and almost immediately a man sprang from inside the doorway of the shoppe with a bright _Hello!_

Maori cursed quietly in surprise.

“My good man—oh! And my ladies, a pleasure!” the not-Orlesian-but-Antivan man said with a sweeping bow. His too-shiny eyes latched back on Solas and a predatory grin crept over his dark lips. “You have picked the right place for clothes and I see you are in _dire_ need of a fitting, Messere.” Solas immediately stopped touching the scarf and suddenly didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Dhrui was vaguely aware of Maori positioning herself just behind her but didn’t have a chance to ask what she was doing when the man decided he was going to corral Solas into his shoppe.

“This will be amusing,” Dhrui said as they followed cautiously.

Inside, the man positioned Solas near the centre of the room where a panel of mirrors sat. “My friend, I have so many ideas for you! You’ve such exquisite features, ah! The possibilities are endless,” the Antivan gushed, rushing around Solas like an upset hen.

“Er—that isn’t—” Solas cut off when the man yanked at the tail of his shirt and then at the fabric at his shoulders.

“You’ve got a peculiar look going on here. Something like…a mysterious wanderer of the dusty roads.” Maordrid and Dhrui snorted back their laughter. Solas tried to aim a glare at them but was forced to keep his attention on the man for fear of wandering hands. “I know just the thing. Oh, do not look so affronted, my friend, for I _am_ your friend—”

“Yes, you have said as much. Many times,” Solas said tersely.

“—I am not here to _change_ you, just to…improve you. Let us do away with these rags and make you into a godly woodsman-lumberjack.” Dhrui didn’t bother to hold back her uproarious laughter. Maori’s own sounded like a baby bogfisher that she doused immediately and went to examine the other clothes on display looking ashamed.

“He is going to eat him alive,” Maori said when Dhrui joined her.

“Who?”

“The tailor.” Dhrui covered her mouth against another laugh.

“Not the other way around? I’m beginning to think it was a mistake having him come. This may make him want to destroy the world even more,” Dhrui joked. Maori shot her an unamused look, then glanced furtively back at Solas who already had a pile of clothes to try on in his arms. “Sorry, too soon?”

“Yes,” Maori deadpanned when he disappeared around a privacy screen. The tailor seemed content with ignoring them as he rushed about hemming and hawing over different options. Solas came out mere seconds later wearing a too-long black tunic—it was actually dragging on the ground—with a red sash around his middle and a dark red chemise beneath with leggings to match. He looked very displeased, but not bad. Dhrui nudged Maori who looked over and shook her head. Solas saw her reaction and tried to walk around the panel again but the tailor reappeared also shaking his head.

“You’ve got it all wrong, my friend—”

“Your measurements are completely off—” The man gasped as though gravely offended.

“Nonsense! I knew your measurements the glowing second I saw you. I am a _master_ at my skill! Now follow me, I will show you how to layer properly.” The tailor grabbed Solas’ wrist and hauled him around the screen. She heard Solas’ low voice but couldn’t make out a word he was saying though it sounded like angry elven. 

“Such a marvellous tongue you have, Messere!” she heard the Orlesian-Antivan coo. 

“Oh Gods, should we rescue Solas?” Dhrui whispered. “I’m beginning to think he's an elf fetishist…” Maori blanched, fingers releasing the dark green cloak she’d been touching and looking like she was about to go save him when he reappeared with a flushed face mere moments later and met her gaze. This time, Dhrui shrugged unimpressed, but Maori seemed to have broken. The tailor had…definitely ‘layered’ him, but everything fit to perfection. He’d been put into fine golden-brown woven leggings and an olive, ruched sweater not unlike his beige one, in addition to the burgundy scarf he’d been admiring earlier now worn around his waist. On top of that was perhaps the fanciest article of all—a coat with layers of great bear leather and patterned dark green everknit wool. The shoulders were tiered with the leather, complimenting both his broad shoulders and confident posture. It was held shut with a braided belt of gurgut webbing with a silver buckle. He passed a leather-wrapped hand over his face, trying to regain some composure until the tailor returned and he near leaped away from him. 

“I did well, no? What does the wife and daughter think of his beauteous transformation?” 

Dhrui was the only one who laughed until she was wheezing. Solas and Maordrid looked like they might die of embarrassment while the tailor seemed genuinely offended. 

“I think _mio padre_ looks like a princely woodsman,” Dhrui cackled, wiping tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands. Solas’ face continued to redden with fury and mortification. “What do you think, _mae?_ ” She was so relieved that they were in a public space because she was certain that the two of them would have murdered her with delight and hid her body in a dark hole. 

“Payment. Give me a price, please,” Solas said impatiently, voice cold as winter’s heart. The tailor was almost too busy looking pleased when Solas retrieved his coin pouch and shook it impatiently to get the man’s attention. Maordrid had already escaped from the shoppe without Dhrui even noticing. When Solas paid—for what he was wearing in addition to some extra underclothes—he joined her still looking mightily displeased. “ _Neral’nu’lin_ ,” he muttered.

“True,” she said cheerily. Maordrid pushed away from the outside of the shop with her arms crossed, attempting to appear stolid. Her eyes kept flicking over Solas’ new clothes, then back to her.

“I have no words for you, brat,” she said when Dhrui opened her mouth again.

“All I was just going to say is that wasn’t the place I wanted to take you anyway,” Dhrui said, biting her lip when Solas facepalmed. “I hope he didn’t make you pay a limb for all of that. The _actual_ place is criminally affordable.”

“Is it too late to get out of this?” Maordrid asked, dangerously close to a whine. Solas _almost_ looked like he might side with her, but then a vengeful shadow passed through his eyes. 

“Yes,” Dhrui and Solas said at the same time. Maordrid closed her eyes and tossed a hand unenthusiastically.

“The outlook is not so good,” she warned. “I sense an impending disaster.”

“Probably,” Dhrui trilled and forged ahead.

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


While Dhrui took the lead, Solas slowed to walk with Maori.

“Unsavoury jokes aside, we _should_ be careful to avoid drawing attention to ourselves,” Solas said, dropping his voice so only she could hear. “Three elves walking through the finer districts is bad enough.”

“In broad daylight, you think?” she asked. Solas nodded. 

“There are just as many people willing to turn a blind eye to a pair of pointed ears as there are men looking for any excuse to take advantage of their indifference.”

“I could always cloak us,” she said, wondering where his unease was coming from. “Or we could climb a roof. Or run. Lots of options in the city.” Solas eyed her, running a hand along his new waist scarf. She paid him a small smile. The tailor—insufferable as he’d been—had known what he was doing. Solas was strikingly handsome.

“True,” he continued, pulling her reluctantly from her surreptitious ogling, “Although, again, avoiding trouble while we are here with the Inquisitor is probably in our best interest. _Otherwise…_ ” He didn’t finish his train of thought, simply shrugging with a glint in his eye. She blinked in surprise.

“You…you _actually_ wouldn’t mind a little thrill in the city, would you? A chase?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Walking physically in the Fade…followed by two harrowing weeks in the Nahashin Marshes…are you not satisfied? I thought you might miss dreaming in bliss.” He touched her elbow as Dhrui guided them down another sidestreet lined with colourful walls and potted flowers. 

“There are a few occasions where a chase in such a place without magical aid can be…refreshing. It hones a different set of skills I do not often employ.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing out of his mouth. Maybe she was hallucinating. 

Yet her own tongue was quick to meet the challenge, “If you need to practise such skills, I could always chase you as a panther down the moonlit streets. I promise I will not maim you too badly.” As she broke away to weave between a few passing bodies, she caught the bare hints of a grin pulling at the corners of his generous lips.

“Here we are!” Dhrui sang from ahead, pointing to signage reading _Cousez Charmant._ The entire shoppe front was covered in flowers and vines which gave it a vibrant, welcoming air. Its windows were spotless, allowing them a perfect view of the interior. She could see a few customers inside all trying on various styles of clothing while cheerful burbling echoed out onto the street. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Elgalas owned a small armoury in the city, but she outsourced all clothes to other tailors. Part of her still longed for the comfort of knowing Elgalas wouldn’t manhandle her when fitting for raiments, but there was also a small amount to be found in the anonymity that came with an unfamiliar place. She could be anyone she wanted and not put on airs.

It was that which drove her into _Cousez Charmant._ The woman running the place was dressed in a fine cream gown with a sheer blue shawl cinched by a shimmering black belt inlaid with little white stones. A lacy apron was tied around her neck, bearing pins, scissors, and other tools of her trade. She smiled pleasantly when she saw Dhrui, dark eyes taking in her and Solas next.

“ _Mon petit chat_ , you return with lovely friends!” the lady said, gliding over the plush rugs that decorated every expanse of the floor. Dhrui got a familiar glint in her eye, glancing at Solas and her.

“ _Oui_ , this is my fa—”

“ _Dhrui,_ ” Solas warned before Maori could beat him to the punch. She vowed to make Dhrui run laps until she vomited later. 

“-- _Falons_ , which is…elven for friends, yes. Close friends,” Dhrui corrected with a grin. Solas wasn’t amused. “Well, we’re here mostly for…uh, Maordrid. She’s wearing my clothes right now.” The woman curtsied at her, unexpectedly. Maori gave her a confused bow in return. _Humans with manners?_

“I am Madam Eloise,” she said. “Come! Let us see what we can do for you.” Both Solas and Dhrui pushed her forward when she failed to go herself. “Is there anything you are partial to…Maordreed, was it?” She repressed a sigh. _I should have picked a simpler name._

“Practicality is preferred over pretty. I wear armour most days,” she immediately said, then closed an eye with a slight wince at her own bluntness. Eloise did not seem to notice as she bade her to stop before a privacy screen with a single mirror set behind it. 

“I see. Then underclothes, hm, and with the cold…yes, yes. No interest in plainclothes? Even knights and soldiers must have something to relax in,” Eloise hummed. “Will you be trusting me with a colour scheme or are you controlling that as well?” Maordrid gave her a puzzled look at the slight bite in her tone. Had she offended the woman?

“It is rare that I come into cities, so regardless of what you or I choose, it does not matter,” she said coolly. 

“My dear, it is not always about _who_ is looking. You can look good for yourself, you know,” Eloise said, then disappeared around the blind. Maordrid was already beginning to seethe, feeling a low heat rising beneath her skin. She pulled the single stool away from the mirror so she didn’t have to look at herself and peered around the panel peering about for the others. Solas and Dhrui were off in a corner sitting on their own stools while the younger of the two admired the wine-coloured scarf around Solas’ waist, running the edges between her fingers while chatting animatedly. The largest concentration of other customers in the shoppe were all gathered around a large shelf overflowing with colourful garments, both fine and oddly worn.

“That is our trade bin.” Maori looked up at Eloise as she returned and caught her gaze. “I make rounds of the city looking for clothes nobles no longer want and repurpose them then sell them for cheap or allow others without the means of gold to acquire threads by other means.”

“That is noble of you.” Maori eyed the folded garments in her hands. There were several earth-toned silks in the pile—as well as a few festive ones—and a couple of simple leather pants. Eloise offered her a tight smile, setting the clothes down on a table nearby. “Are these new or…?”

“Is it a problem? I can assure you, the ‘used’ articles are as good as new. No other seamstress in the city can remake old clothes into a rival of new cloth like myself,” Eloise said, again with offence colouring her voice. Maori refrained from sighing her impatience.

“It is not that I doubt you, Madam, I simply want to make sure your hard work does not tear after one skirmish because the threads were already worn,” Maori said as calmly as she could muster. “Armour wears at threads, it is a simple fact.” Why did she have to explain this to a tailor? 

_Oh. I am an elf. She probably thinks I don’t know a damned thing._

The seamstress’ cheeks—though caked in cosmetics—were colouring a faint pink like cherry blossoms. 

“Perhaps I neglected to say that I reinforce all of my threads with enchantments,” the woman said in a chilly voice. Maori clamped her mouth shut. Maybe there was merit to her claims and the woman was unique to her trade. Sometimes she caught herself holding ancient Elvhen—typically superior—techniques over the heads of humans and other mortals. It was a disgusting habit. 

“Very well,” she said a little begrudgingly. Eloise gave a curt nod and motioned to her.

“Remove your clothes. I will likely need to tailor what I have for your…physique.” The pause before the last word had its own implications. _I would rather touch a dead rat than you._ Maori reluctantly removed her belt holding the transcript and set it down on the floor away from Eloise before pulling Dhrui’s tunic over her head. She bit her lip against a subtle gibe when the woman immediately took in the scars on her back through the mirror’s reflection. “Bottoms too, _s'il vous plaît.”_ When she did, the human pulled a measuring string from a pocket and set to taking her numbers in a practised fashion. “You may take your pickings of the things in that pile,” Eloise said after she’d finished. “I forgot to grab a set of smalls for you, I will be returned shortly.” After she’d gone, she ran her fingers along a silk tunic the colour of burnt umber looking for the enchantments. She was startled to find a weaving as fine as the cloth it was bonded to and as strong as steel. Further, it was an elvhen technique and now she was beginning to feel a fool. _Leave it to Dhrui for the interesting finds._

She quickly fingered through the other choices, pulling out another walnut-brown silk tunic with puffy sleeves she hated—and would modify later—and halla leathers dyed a deep plum. One more pair of patchy seaweed green wyvern leggings put her at two complete outfits. _Good enough,_ she thought and nearly forgot about the smalls the woman had gone to fetch for her until she glided around the mirror. Dhrui appeared as well with a tentative grin.

“Gonna keep us in suspense, Maori?” she teased. 

“I am not an actor in some comedic play for you to delight over.” Maori shot her a glare as Eloise circled behind her. She felt a sharp tug and cold fingers at her back and before she could even realise what the seamstress was doing, her strophium came free. Maordrid yelped and jerked sharply—it all happened so quickly. Also startled, Eloise took a step backward and tripped over the transcript lying on the ground behind her—Dhrui lurched to catch her but was too late. The seamstress fell into the privacy screen, toppling it.

And now she was standing almost completely nude in the near-centre of a crowded shoppe. Everyone turned and froze, taking in the scene. Her eyes immediately darted to Solas off by the windows - the last person to turn. She barely covered her chest in time with an arm. Solas’ cheeks went red, but his brows drew down as though…offended _Well. Now he’s seen almost everything. Brilliant._ She sighed.

Behind her, something else crashed to the floor, the stasis was broken over the people, and attentions were split.

“Oops,” Dhrui said, “Look at that, a shelf on the other side of the shoppe fell and trapped someone.” Maori quickly swiped Dhrui’s clothes off the ground and shoved her legs back into her pants. “Get out of here, I’ll handle Eloise,” Dhrui said passing her by. Maori didn’t care much for what had happened so much as the awkwardness she’d just caused for everyone. She gathered Dhrui’s tunic and the transcript off the ground and rushed toward the exit, pulling the tunic over her bared chest not caring about who else bore witness at that point.

She was paces down the street when she heard Solas call her name, followed by footsteps as he caught up.

“Are you all right?” She smiled, keeping her back turned as she buckled the transcript on. 

“Fine. Leaving is probably for the best anyway,” she said, facing him. “I am going back to the inn to…train or something.” He looked apologetic, but understanding. His hands twisted together before him as though he wanted to say something more, but then nodded. “Don’t have too much more fun without me.” The amusement in her voice seemed to catch him off guard and a small grin sprang onto his lips seemingly without him knowing. 

“Of course. Be safe,” he said. She gave him a weak smile then shifted into a raven and flew off. 

  


  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


The Inquisitor landed on his ass with a grunt and it wasn’t the first time he’d done so. 

“Seriously, who pissed you off, Maori?” he laughed as he climbed to his feet and stepped back as they reset yet again. “And what did I do to deserve such a beat down?” She threw her staff across her shoulders, draping her arms over it as she spun to face him.

“No one, truly. I have been a poor mentor and we are both semi out of practise,” she said. At Yin’s disbelieving look, she gave a guilty lopsided grin. “It isn’t that I am _angry._ I just…may have flashed a popular tailor’s shoppe my single nipple and most of my arse. It got awkward quickly,” she finished casually. Yin gaped and followed it up with roaring laughter, leaning back with his spirit sword hanging loosely from his grip.

“Oh—Oh, that is brilliant and horrible!” he cried. “Did my sister have a hand in this— _oh shit,_ Solas was there too! I’ll bet his face was priceless.” She laughed, digging a toe into the dirt.

“It was entirely my fault, not Dhrui’s. And I am not sure Solas was particularly _thrilled_ about the entire thing. Not that anyone in the entire place was at the time,” she said with a snort. Yin dashed forward and feinted to the right as he tried to get a shot at her neck, but she’d been watching his footwork—sloppy—and with a well aimed throw of her spear between his feet, he tripped into it then collided with her, dropping his sword to avoid stabbing her. She laughed as he went to wrestle her to the ground which he did quite easily since she was already off balance. But getting out from beneath his thick, flailing limbs was easy as she wrapped her legs around his waist and torqued her body, placing her on top. She held her practise twig-dagger to his neck.

“He _is_ a man,” Yin panted, clenching a fist in submission. She got off of him and helped him back up. “Guaranteed there was at least a _little_ heat under that stoic mask of his.” She planted her spear and leaned against it, putting her own mask of indifference on.

“Unnecessary bit of anecdotal…opinion,” she said. Yin backed up, raising a brow and mimicking her posture on the pommel of his sword.

“C’mon, you two aren’t together yet?” he deadpanned. No, _no_ she was not about to get into _this_ with the Inquisitor. It was already too much that Dhrui had been meddling practically since they met. “You two would make the ultimate wandering apostate couple!”

“Or maybe just friends,” she said, feigning detachment. In reality, an uncomfortable flutter of disappointment followed her words. It made her throat acidic. She dispelled her spear to try and recover some of her inner calm.

“No, _you and I_ are friends.” _The prettiest ones are usually the dangerous ones,_ she remembered someone saying not too long ago, looking at Yin as she thought about it. He was dangerous in that it would be easy to tell him more than was wise. Especially since her relationship with Solas was…well, a bit complicated.

Maori drew four circles in the air, bidding Yin to complete the glyph to see how much he remembered. It was a static iron-tough Aegis that she’d been working on for Yin. To avoid drawing too much attention to her complex spellweaving, she'd taken to rewriting much of it to look simpler, but accomplishing that without compromising the integrity of her spells was a challenge in itself. Her efforts might have been in vain.

“I’m the Inquisitor. It’s part of the job to ask weird questions,” Yin continued. “Like…did Solas blush when you got naked? Cheeks or ears—maybe both? Was there a tent in his pants?”

“Yin Lavellan!” she admonished and his laugh was not unlike Dhrui’s cackle. “Finish the damn glyph. If you can get it first try, maybe I will teach you how to make your sword dance in the air.” 

“That sounds too useful _not_ to teach me. I could always order you as Inquisitor,” he pouted, stepping up to the floating moonstone-coloured mana as he began studying it.

“You could, but you have more honour than that,” she said with a simper. “Just admit that you did not study the techniques we last went over and I will consider being more lenient in my offer.” Not one to give up readily, Yin raised a hand, rubbing the other across his lips in thought as he tried to remember the right shapes. “Careful, the wrong symbol and you will blow a crater into the ground.”

“What, seriously?” he said, snapping his hand back. She shrugged and motioned for him to continue. “You’re ridiculously ornery right now. Must be your uh…pent up frustrations? Take them out on your students, do you?” He drew a half circle connecting the four then went to put the tip of the following triangle in the wrong spot. She grunted a warning, earning a sharp glance from him. His green eyes sparkled and then with quick fingers, he completed the glyph in the span of her two surprised blinks.

“ _Na hale!_ You _did_ practise!” she exclaimed as the spell locked in and the glyph glowed. A beautiful sunset-coloured Aegis billowed out from it. As she checked the integrity of the ward, Yin cleared his throat.

“So. You were saying?” he said, looking every bit like a proud peacock. Maori unravelled the Aegis in favour of a spirit sword that she made to balance on the tip of a finger. “You know, Commander Helaine didn’t believe me when I said you could form a spear, a sword, _and_ a battleaxe without some sort of hilt and a spirit to aid you.” Maori hadn’t given much thought to that. Her eyes strayed to the hilt still clutched in Yin’s hand. 

“This was the way I was taught,” she said, removing her hand so that the sword levitated in the air. “Perhaps it is not the _best_ way.”

“Yours seems more convenient than having to carry a hilt around with you everywhere,” he pointed out. 

“True, but you may add enchantments and runes to your hilt. I have what I can manage with my magic alone.” He gave her an inquisitive look. She realised then that Yin Lavellan was a lot keener than he let on. She'd definitely been too free with the magic and power that she held within. Solas was weak, but she knew even he refrained from casting suspiciously complex spells despite his closeness with Yin himself. _Time to dial it back, I suppose._

Yin reached out and touched the ethereal white sword between them, stepping back when it drifted in the air.

“I haven’t been able tie my blade off like yours,” he said. “I mean, not for long. I can make one powerful strike but it takes a lot out of me.”

“If you can manage to tie one off, it would be enough to accomplish this,” she swept a hand out and the two of them watched as the sword flew through the air and penetrated one of the bales of hay sitting at the far end of the training yard. “After all, it takes only one critical blow to fell an enemy.” Yin turned to her wearing a wide, white smile.

“I don’t need any more convincing than that,” he said, “Show me.” She summoned another blade.

“It is quite similar to creating a blade wrought of ice. Except, this is an extension of your will itself. The spirit of intent, in both a literal and figurative sense,” she said. Yin gritted his teeth and summoned something that had the vague outline of a broadsword, but with no fine details.

“Is it anything like the will you use in dreams? For example, conjuring clothes and what not,” he said. Her brows raised of their own accord.

“Yes, that is almost precisely what you are doing, but you are fighting the Veil in addition,” she said. Yin nodded and went silent as he focused again. Both were bare to their waists—she was wearing her last breastband of course—but as he struggled with his magic, she could see a new sheen of sweat forming on his back from the exertion. With a snap like a branch, a sword took shape in his hands. She reached out to touch it, testing its solidity. “How are you feeling?”

“A little winded, but I think the Anchor helped somehow,” he said, sounding surprised as he turned the verdant sword in his hands. “How do I make it levitate?” 

“The same way you would throw any magic, but you must sustain the blade’s form until it meets its mark. That is the only difference between throwing a fireball or any other magic that can continue unaided in its path. Thus…you might pass out the first time.”

“You _would_ like that, wouldn’t you?” he said with a breathy laugh. “All right, I’m ready.” She nodded and stepped back, watching him carefully. The sword levitated above his hand for a half second before he hurled it with a grunt at the nearest target. The weapon dissipated halfway and Yin let out another gasp, bending to brace his hands on his knees.

“Are you sure?” she laughed, walking over to their pile of gear to toss him a waterskin. He drank deeply and went back to his task immediately after. The sword reformed a little faster the second time, but instead of flying straight it went spinning end over end in the opposite direction before dissipating again. The Inquisitor growled his frustration. 

“One of us is bound to get skewered and Solas and Dorian are going to let us bleed out as punishment,” Yin said, swaying a little. 

“You and Dhrui have a way of making me feel young again,” she sighed. Yin laughed.

“It’s all this getting into trouble and _knowing_ you’re doing it,” he said and she agreed with a nod. Without warning, he summoned another sword and tried again. 

This time, it went flying straight at her. With a yelp, she deflected it with the dagger from her back but the edge caught her forearm. 

“Shit! Sorry, Solas!” Maori spun, holding her bleeding arm to see that Yin’s sword had actually kept its form, but had pinned a corner of Solas’ new coat to one of the trees by the entry. He carried in his arms a few tissue-wrapped rectangular boxes that he’d narrowly lifted in time to escape the sword. Behind her, Yin groaned. She turned back to see him collapse to his knees looking pale. 

“You idiot,” she said, rushing over. “Look what happens when you state hypotheticals. Maybe you are the Prophet of Andraste, not a Herald.” He laughed weakly.

“That’s not funny,” he said. 

“You laughed.” 

“Because Solas is going to kick both our asses,” he said. She picked up footfalls behind her but didn’t look, holding his head still while she checked his pupils. “What did I do wrong? I feel like I got up too quick.” 

“You put too much mana into the last one too quickly is exactly what happened,” she chided, sheathing her dagger. “But at least you stabbed something.”

“You look nice,” he told Solas as he crouched beside her. “Sorry I ripped your new coat.” 

“My coat, her flesh,” Solas remarked dryly. 

“He has successfully gotten under my skin,” she said, earning a guilty grin from Yin. They helped the Inquisitor back to his feet. Once standing, he glanced up at the sun where it hung just at the peak of the roof—and just then, a bell in the city began ringing. 

“Creators, it’s already two past noon? I’m gonna be late,” he exclaimed, rushing over to pick his shirt up. 

“Late where?” she asked. 

“The Sahrnia party should be here any day. I said I’d wait for them at the Sun Gate every day at noon—I have to go, Dorian’s going to be mad too,” he threw his shirt on and began tugging his coat over it, eyeing her with a growing grin. “Solas, she’s been throwing me around like a ragdoll and seems to think she’s unrivalled sparring champion. Rough her up a bit while I’m gone? And maybe heal that scratch? ‘ _Abelas!_ ” Yin saluted them both an took off at a hurried jog, leaving them alone. She turned to Solas who shook his head and gestured to her arm. 

“You are never living a moment dull, it seems,” he said, running a hand over her laceration. She watched with idle fascination as his magic slowly sealed the muscle and skin back together.

“It was not my fault this time,” she insisted. He passed two fingers over the pale scar that formed, smoothing even that away with his magic. “I am quite lucky for my reflexes. It nearly took out an eye.” She caught his eyes roaming past her arm in his hands and remembered her state of dress. The tips of his ears were lightly flushed. “Don’t act like you have not seen me like this before.”

“Indeed. I have seen you in less,” he corrected and this time she went pink.

“I am surprised you are not still out with Dhrui eating frilly cakes or studying something useful,” she was quick to retaliate. 

“I consider this a useful study.” He released her, lip twitching as he dropped his hands to the belt at his waist where he began undoing it.

“Are you serious?” she said as he slid it free, then shrugged free of his pretty green coat.

“You are mended. The Inquisitor made a request that I intend to follow through with. Is there a problem?” he asked rather genially.

“We have never sparred before.” The thought was just as unnerving as it was exhilarating. 

“But we have fought together,” he said, walking over to pick one of the less waterlogged quarterstaffs from a barrel set against the inn wall. She caught the second one, giving it an experimental whirl. He watched the muscles of her stomach tensing with an admirably reserved expression before repeating the same movement with his own. He paused long enough to push up his sleeves, baring distractingly toned forearms. She forced herself to look at his eyes, though it didn't do much to dampen the butterfly wings in her belly.

“That is different,” she said in a noticeably tighter voice. “Never _against_.” He tilted his head at an angle that a ray of sun caught one of his eyes and made it glow like pale ice.

“Trying to talk your way out of this?” he wondered, voice still neutral.

“I am giving _you_ the option to walk away,” she lied. 

“My answer is no. I take my commitments seriously,” he said in a tone to match. She hummed, looking to the side while twisting the staff into the wet ground.

“The Inquisitor’s mentors facing off. Shall we make this interesting?” she proposed. He raised a brow, blue eyes merry and ever watchful as she began to pace around him.

“I am open to ideas,” he said. 

“A drill, then. Passed on by Protection to me, and thence to Yin and Dhrui,” she said, coming to stand before him again. She leaned in on her staff, putting them about an arm’s length away as she peered at him with challenge.

“I request only that it be the same the two of you engaged in prior to my arrival,” he said rubbing a thumb along a rough spot in the wood. She dipped her head in a nod.

“Dhrui has dubbed it BRAHT,” she said. “Although the words are completely out of order.”

“And it stands for…?” 

“Boundary, rag-tag, hit,” she said. He quirked a brow in further question. “A boundary is set—typically a harmless storm spell in a circle or square. We both take a rag and tuck it into the backs of our belts. The objective is to retrieve the rag without being hit. Landing one or getting pushed out of bounds gives you a point for the round. However, the game is over when someone captures the other flag without dropping it. Also, no using magic.” She liked the way that she could see his interest grow with each rule described. She knew he would press the very boundaries themselves—or at least get creative with them. Everyone did.

“This is meant to hone footwork, I gather?” he said. She nodded and he ran his hands along the middle of his staff with a little smile.

“Yin’s footwork is abysmal. He is used to fighting ranged and this has helped him to improve considerably,” she said. 

“Excellent. I believe all we need are rags.” There were two old ones her and Yin had been using earlier that she retrieved from the mouth of the barrel. Then she handed her staff to him and raised her hands to prepare their perimeters.

“Circle or square?” she asked, fingers glowing with proper magic. His own fingers darted out quick as snakes, tracing a spell in the air. A purple circle hummed into existence around them, continuing to glow faintly even after it was cast. Solas tossed her weapon back and positioned himself across from her, bare feet treading the somewhat muddy ground carefully as though familiarising himself with where it was soft and firm, loose and compact. 

She eyed his fine new tunic and almost considered saying something but ultimately realised that he probably did not think he would be landing in the mud at all. _Subtle boast of confidence?_ Not that she wasn’t confident herself, but her heart was already racing. She _had_ been bested by people who’d never picked up a sword before.

She forced herself to focus on him in earnest, taking in his stance. He never favoured one leg over the other, always standing on each foot equally. Back straight, shoulders relaxed. Cause for concern lay with his height, reach, strength, and speed. Remembering one sportsmanship rule, she walked over to him and pulled his rag from his fingers before sliding around him and moving his shirt out of the way to tuck it into the back of his breeches, not too loose or snugly.

“I could have done that myself,” he said with amusement.

“It is a common rule to make sure your opponent does not cheat and tie it into a loop or loose knot,” she informed him. 

“Ah. Fair enough.” He held a long-fingered hand out. She placed hers in his palm and moved her braid out of the way. Gentle hands tucked it just centred to the small of her back and above the swell of her arse. Calloused fingertips pressed lightly at one of the thicker scars just below her scapula. “This one is almost a feather in shape.” 

“Fitting, I suppose,” she said when they were facing one another again. His eyes smiled as he watched her more intently as though he could predict her very first movements before the game even started. “You are a chess player, aren’t you.” There was a flicker of surprise across his features.

“On occasion,” he admitted. “How…?” She offered the barest smile.

“It shows.” She bowed slowly to him, sweeping her staff out. He repeated the motion dutifully and both took a few steps back. “On your mark, Solas.” He nodded, switching his weapon to his left hand. _Ambidextrous?_ She didn’t wait for him to move, dashing straight and then to her left in an arc, forcing him to pass the staff back to his right as she came level with his side, reaching her right hand out as if to grab for his flag—Solas stabbed out with the length of his staff across her legs in an attempt to stop her, but her own staff was already there, crossing his and driving them both into the ground. Propelled by momentum, she flipped over their crossed staves and dropped hers in favour of tugging his flag from his waist. She landed and poked him between his shoulderblades with a finger. 

“That was…quick,” he said a little indignantly, bending to collect her fallen staff. “We never did determine the amount of rounds.” She chuckled and motioned for him to turn back around, tucking the flag back at his waist and placing her hand against his shoulderblade—a little unnecessary a gesture, but she couldn’t help herself. His muscles were firm beneath her palm, and warm. Solas looked over his shoulder, lips set in mild amusement, “Best of three?”

“I gather this first round did not count, then?” she mused. He raised a brow. “I jest. Let’s reset.” Retrieving her staff, she glided past him with a small sway to her hip, spinning on her heel after three paces just in time to catch him staring quite south of her eyes for a flash before he cleared his throat and spun his staff over his wrist, raising his head regally. She kept backing away until they were exactly ten paces from each other.

“On your mark, Maordrid.” His voice wrapped around her ears like soft fingers, coaxing a lopsided grin from her. His face was as blank as a snow drift and as cool as one. She knew he would be watching the right parts of her now—those ocean blues twitched minutely between her hips and feet, waiting.

She started by circling left—he went right. With each step, she hovered her foot above the mud before committing her full weight, heel to insole to the tips of her toes, muscles coiled beneath the leather of her leggings, preparing to act at any given moment. Solas passed his staff from hand to hand, still watching her patiently. When the sun illuminated the shell of his right ear and half his eye, she took a step in and relished the way his whole body tensed, elegant fingers tightening on the rough wood. The corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly. 

As a lead into the round, she began with a simple overhead twirl that she brought down in a vertical arc. Solas caught it easily, horizontal across his body. In a graceful movement packing solid strength behind it, he turned her staff to the outside, spinning his own with it and turning it into a thrust. She shifted her body sideways, allowing the attack to pass by seamlessly before yanking her own in behind her back and rolling it over her shoulders to get it back into her hands, but Solas took the moment that it wasn’t in her grip to strike at her ribs. She narrowly bent down out of the way, feeling the wood catch on a few stray hairs on its way over. Another thrust straight at her manubrium had her bending all the way back, landing her flat in the mud. His eyes practically glowed with his growing confidence. He had the upperhand and he could easily end it, but he would draw it out—like a gardener watching fruits ripen on a tree until they reached the peak where they were sweetest. A victory brought by patience. 

He drove his staff down with both hands where her stomach would have been if she hadn’t rolled away and kicked her legs beneath her, jumping back to her feet and swinging from her outside, in, to hit his shoulder. Solas blocked it with a grunt. She was a little winded at that point—and awfully sweaty—but the adrenaline would sustain her until the third round, because there _would_ be a third. 

Solas gripped the cross section of their staves, trapping them together.

She laughed, releasing hers and closing the distance between them before he could attack again, but he mirrored her, swinging out with both staves. She chased after the one in his left, gripping it with both hands and somersaulting over, simultaneously tearing it from his clutches and rolling into the mud once more. As she was rising from her crouch, Solas whipped his staff across his stomach, rotated it behind is back, and thrust out into her sternum just as she was recovering. The breath left her in an undignified _HCK_ and she stumbled back, pressing her hand to her chest, narrowly catching herself from hitting the barrier with her staff.

“Point,” he announced, straightening. He mopped his brow of sweat with the crook of his elbow. 

“Well done,” she gasped, bending over briefly to will her chest to stop hurting. “You do not pull punches.” He chuckled. 

“ _Ir abelas—”_ He grunted as her staff whistled by his neck, dodging to the side with wide eyes. _“Tel’abelas.”_ She grinned and pirouetted, actually giggling when it brought them almost face to face at his cross-block. His tongue flicked out against his lower lip and she recognised apprehension. She’d caught him in a vulnerable position—his knees and arms were bent awkwardly. He was not used to close quarters. They pushed at the same time, attempting to dislodge the other from their stance. Sweat dripped into her left eye, temporarily stinging it and making her blink. Solas took notice and hooked his right foot beneath her left and pulled it toward him, successfully grounding her again. But as a desperate last act, she dropped her staff in favour of grasping his right wrist and pulling him down with her. He attempted to retaliate by knocking her with the side of his staff, but she caught it—with him landing on top of her with a knee planted in her gut. He gritted his teeth and pushed down across the staff toward her chest. His knee moved to the other side of her torso so he was effectively straddling her and attempting to win out the struggle. Her face reddened with the effort of keeping him at bay…and the awful heat that decided to coil like a snake in her belly. His body dwarfed hers. 

“You are—strong,” he grunted, redoubling his efforts by leaning his entire upper body into the push. She wouldn’t last long, beneath his strength or the way it was beginning to jelly her insides. Before she could succumb, she panted a laugh and used his strength to direct the staff above her head. Solas yelped as she bucked her hips and threw him off her body. He tumbled gracefully into the mud above her while she recovered her feet, picking the staff back up. Her own weapon was too close to him to retrieve. His own quick glance at the staff in the muck had him pausing, then he too discarded his. Solas rolled his sleeves up to his shoulders and all she could do was stare at the toned biceps and smattering of freckles.

“What’s this?” she asked a little nervously, wiping her lips on her shoulder. 

“It should be a fair fight, don’t you agree?” he asked, walking to the middle and raising his arm. “First to the flag?” _Hardly fair. He’s nearly twice my size._

“Or the boundary. Temporary change of rule - hits don't count.” He nodded in concession to her suggestion and met her in the centre, crossing the back of his left forearm with her right. She risked watching his chest rise with even breaths instead of his hips or feet and at the moment he began to breathe in again, she twisted her arm over his and spun in, driving her elbow into _his_ sternum. His breath left his lungs in a wheeze, but she felt his arm move as he attempted to reach for the flag at her back—she stomped his foot and used the distraction to dart out of his range once more. Speed was her only friend with a man taller and stronger than her.

“That was dirty,” he said with a wince, rubbing the dorsal part of his foot against his calve. She brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face and sank down into a lower stance, hands upraised. 

“We are sparring in the mud. It is the perfect time to play dirty.” To emphasise, she flicked a clod of mud up at his forehead with her toes. She expected some remark about childishness, but instead he scrubbed a wrist across his brow with a small smile.

“Very well. Have it your way.” With disarming speed, Solas feinted to the left and jabbed with his right hand—she clawed it out of the way with both her hands, pushing his arm and reaching for the exposed flag. Her fingers brushed it, but he was too quick to follow his momentum in a spin that brought him back around, driving a fist into her shoulder and one into her side. A wheeze escaped her and frustration began to mount at constantly being out of breath. A buzzing alerted her to the precariously close boundary at her back. Her vision went black as a splash of mud painted her face. She doubled over, swinging out wildly with a fist while she scraped at the mud.

“You _shit_ ,” she snarled, dancing to the left when she heard movement to her right. His charming laughter filled her ears in response. As soon as her eyes were clear—still a little blurry—she reassessed her plan of action. He was trying to wear her down with blows, that much was clear. And when she was too winded, he would pluck the scarf from her like a cherry. _Distract, first._

She scraped some of the mud accumulated in the small of her back and hid it in her palm as she retreated from his advance. 

“Continuing to run will not win you this match,” he said, raising a dirty brow. The entire dip of his right eye was stained with dried mud. They’d spent the last two weeks in a state of filth, but this was different. _She_ had soiled him. And he wasn’t sad or angry about it—he was smirking like a mischievous youth.

“You’re right,” she said, then dashed forward, tossing the mud in her hand at his face. As he raised a hand to block it, she ducked under it and grabbed the front tail of his shirt, pulling it up until it covered his face. His hands flew up instinctively, but one caught her in the ear quite roughly - she forced herself to move through the pain. Her whole body was beginning to ache, muscles burning. Yin had gotten a few good blows on her earlier and the adrenaline wasn’t quite strong enough anymore to cover the twinges of pain she felt with certain movements. She couldn’t lose this. Yin was definitely going to ask who won later and being defeated by a man who spent all of his time playing a ranged role was just… _infuriating_ because Solas absolutely saw the opportunity to knock her down a peg. 

Reinvigorated with the desire to snuff out his haughtiness like a candle, she kicked the outside of his leg as he was trying to reach over her shoulder for the flag, causing him to buckle into her. She threw all of her weight into slamming him into the ground with an _oof_ as she planted her hand in the centre of his chest to drive him flatter into the mud. His hands shot out and pulled her sideways into the dirt beside him. Solas swung his leg over both of hers, trapping them while one of his hands darted out to try and grasp at the tongue of red flipped over her hip. She thrust an open palm at his nose—an action which made him shout in anger and roll away, exposing his own flag—but he kept rolling, clearly aware of what he’d just done.

Both of them hopped up at the same time, panting and snarling. 

It was Solas who attacked next. He struck out sloppily and paid dearly. She grabbed his wrist overhand, repeating the same with his offhand and pulled him toward her. At the same time, she used the isometric tension between her pull and his attempt to yank out of her grip to plant both her feet into his stomach and bowed backward, dragging him down _again—_ except this time she threw Solas over her body. There was a light static-y sound as the wards caught him, followed by a colourful song of elven curses.

“Point!” she cried to the air, laying listlessly in the muck. There was another growl somewhere above her and then a squelch as he pulled himself out of the mud. Solas appeared above her, looking every bit a man of wounded pride. She sat up with a triumphant grin, watching him bend to retrieve their abandoned staves. 

“Last round declares the winner,” he said, tossing it beside her into the mud. She snapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

“Eager, are we?” she mused. “Haste breeds mistakes.” He scoffed.

“On your feet, _asha._ ” The command in his tone spoke levels to his frustration. She obeyed at her own leisure, climbing up the staff with a wide grin. 

She was surprised he retained a shred of sportsmanship when he chose to bow. She returned it and held her staff before her, keeping it level with his knees in low guard. He gripped his own near the butt end, leaving only about two hand spans of space between both of them. She extended her own very slowly and tapped hers playfully against the side of his. He immediately whacked it to the side, taking two wide steps at her, eyes like blue vitriol. A spinning snake flourish in front of her held him at bay until she turned it into a swing at his waist that he blocked expertly. He flicked the lower two-thirds of the staff up at her chin, grazing her clavicle but otherwise passing harmlessly over her shoulder. He used the upward cut to bring them yet another step closer, rolling the stave along his opposite wrist and over both his shoulders before slamming it quick as a whip onto her same side shoulder at the junction of her neck. 

“Ow, you ass!” she cried, skipping backward. She rubbed her stinging trapezius, glaring at him.

“My point, keep going. This is not over,” he said and he didn’t stop—her eyes widened but she dodged to the side as he swung his staff down in a vertical arc. Feeling daring, she threw herself into a [butterfly twist](https://youtu.be/vbefem-b8p8?t=114) as he was recovering—Solas coughed a grunt, barely deflecting her blow. “Desperation makes you bold,” he hummed, twirling his own staff down and behind his back before returning it to his front. They began circling one another again, this time in a tighter circle. She held hers out half-extended—he copied so that the ends were almost grazing once more.

“ _You_ are the one who declared the match unfinished. Technically you have won,” she said. Solas clocked his head, lips parted as he panted. His new shirt was drenched in sweat and mud at this point. A hazard, really, if she could flip it over his head it would stick to him like a honey trap.

“Not if we count your initial point. Then it is tied.” She raised a brow.

“You said best of three, not four,” she said.

“I never discounted your first point. We are tied. Will you so readily turn down a chance to deny me a victory?” He grinned and she was stunned by how striking he was in that moment, the mid-noon sun falcate against his face, highlighting his cheekbones and gaunt of his cheeks. Every muscular fibre of his lithe figure tense as a lute string beneath his tunic, ready to sing his rhythm of battle at the slightest movement. She couldn’t seem to focus on his footwork, for her eyes kept drifting to the curvature of his calves or the way his soaked leggings clung to the shapely quadriceps they covered. The dip and swell of his broad shoulders— _void, but I want to hold onto them._ She swallowed a self-deprecating curse, allowing her eyes to keep wandering. She followed the rise of his chest with every breath he drew, following the path of air up through his alluring throat and sinful lips. _He_ was sinful for just existing and torturing her like this.

It had been more than a few seconds that she’d been leering at him like a starved urchin eyeing a mouth-watering morsel. She wasn’t sure how she felt—or, she did, but acknowledging it fully would win him the match—when she realised he was doing the same to her. His eyes were practically picking her apart like a jigsaw the way she’d seen him do with a new art study. The fight had weathered their reserved veneers to translucent veils. They were quite literally undressing each other with their eyes. _Manaan himanemah em, ar nuven ish._

Salted earth soured her tongue when it darted out to wet her lips, the corner pressing into a crooked grin when his eyes snapped to her mouth. She tried to convince herself of the lie she’d told Yin, the fiction that they were only _friends_. Hoping against hope. _Hopelessly_ in love—a love doomed to end in heartbreak because _she_ would ultimately pay the price. Her _Vir’shalamelan_ was but a prettier word for the _Dinan’shiral._ It had been the plan since before she loved him.

Her eyes stung, but not with sweat or dirt. “ _Ma esayemah_ ,” she remembered to reply with her too-dry tongue. His genuine smile broke her spell of darkness like the sunlight that currently surrounded him. _Hope against hope,_ her mind repeated.

Solas initiated the attack and it was the most brutal session yet. The crude staves were roughly hewn and unbalanced, something she’d been struggling with the whole time. Even with the callouses in her hands, blisters had formed in places they shouldn’t have and broke, leaving her flesh burning with each twisting attack and jarring block. The resounding clacks of wood skittered across the yard, hitting the buildings and rippling into the air in an echo. Each powerful blow of Solas’ only served to take a little more of her own energy. She was slowing. She could see why he’d wanted to continue—he had learned her patterns and wanted to take full advantage of the weaknesses he’d uncovered. 

_Attrition,_ she thought irritably as she swung her forearm into his ribs before whirling under his arm and attempting to capture his flag with the end of her staff.

Her heart leaped as it snagged and lifted from his waistband. She laughed hysterically, throwing it into the air and dropping her staff to run and catch it as it fluttered earthbound, arms outstretched. She got whiplash as Solas dove at her, wrapping his arms around her torso and tucking his head in as they landed then slid some ways in the mud. One of his hands pressed into the dirt at the side of her head and the other rested on her ribs just below her breast - they both froze, staring at one another, breathing each other's earthy scent, skin sticking where there was contact. She was sharply aware of... _parts_ of him pressing against her lower abdomen. The moment died quickly as her legs twitched to wrap around his waist - to roll him as she had with Yin earlier, but Solas moved quicker, using her hip to shove himself to his feet and bolting away to retrieve his flag. She was quick to follow, snatching up her weapon and in a wildly stupid move that left her entire torso exposed, chopped downward at his shoulders. Solas snapped his hips away from it in a half circle that placed him behind her - as she dashed forward to avoid his attempt to capture, she felt his fingers graze the curve of her arse in marked failure. Nonetheless, his touch made the tips of her ears glow. He must have believed it had an untoward effect on her focus because the next thing he did was execute a one-handed thrust that he hoped would force her to turn her back on him—and thus reveal her flag again. But she bent backward with a cry of exertion and parried upward with every ounce of strength she had. It must have caught his fingers, because he immediately released it with a curse. He watched in horror - and her in smug satisfaction - as the pole flew up into the air. She caught it in the middle of her staff as it came back down and launched it out of the boundary like a catapult. Solas watched in silent disbelief as it landed on the other side with a dull splat. 

She poised her staff at the hollow of his neck, though he was not close enough to strike.

“Surrender?” she panted, breaths coming out with light stridor.

“You wouldn’t return the favour I paid you in the second round?” he said incredulously. She laughed.

“Why would I willingly drop my weapon when you have every advantage that way?” She twitched the end of the staff, watching with amusement as he jerked out of the way and raised his hands defensively. 

“You _did_ win that round,” he pointed out, dropping into a southpaw stance while watching her feet. 

“And _you_ will have to try harder than that to get your hands on me again,” she said, lips parting in a small smile. His jaw clenched, a cheek dimpling as he sucked in.

“Then keep your staff. You will need it.” The way he enunciated each word was a beat to which her blood began to pound. _No, no, dance to_ your _rhythm, not his or the battle is lost._

Like chess—predict.

Distract.

Her knees bent automatically. _Trip him._ She dropped and spun on her heels, sweeping the pole at his ankles. _He jumps up and away. You too._

They recovered at the same time—her arms thrust the staff to the left of his head with both her hands. _Continue in toward his ear, force him to duck._ So far, so good. _Crescent out then snake back in at his knees again._ Solas saw it coming from a league away and executed a clean leap over the swing. _Lure him in. Follow across your body and circle—turn your back, expose the flag._

_No, no, that’s foolish._

Too late, her body was already following her momentum inward. _Wait, I see, he will follow the flag in wake of the staff. Now thrust backward under your arm and catch him in the chest or the back of his neck as he bends to grab it. Capture his tag—victory._

At mid-thrust, her staff should have connected but instead there was empty air and she felt like her stomach went with it. He hadn’t followed her staff—the jab had breezed by him harmlessly. His own face was set in grim focus—his right hand closed around it as it sailed by and with an effortless jerk, pulled her off balance. As she lurched forward, he moved in— _no, no, no!_ She caught a glimpse of a grin as he spun along the length, passing her by the opposite direction. _Turn your back—spin inward before it’s too late!_

An arm looped around her stomach and curled her inward at the same time that his hand relinquished the staff from her grip. She slammed flush into his chest with enough force to push the breath from both their lungs. They stumbled a little before he steadied them. Her hand fell onto the wrist holding the staff—the other splaying on his chest. The fierce warrior fled and the battle-rhythm of her blood was swept away by the cacophony of fire coursing through her veins. She slowly lifted her gaze. Solas loomed, eyes lidded as he gazed down at her, his pale rosy lips parted in mild surprise. His breath hitched, chest barely moving beneath her palm though she knew he was winded. Yet, she barely dared to breathe either.

_Move._

**Move.**

_One of you has to move._

She couldn’t—nor did she want to. The world shrank to just the two of them. This close, she could see freckles dusting his nose and cheeks beneath the dried layer of dirt. Little constellations—a weakness she didn’t realise she had for him until now. Her body tensed with surprise when he finally let loose a real breath, this one stilted, sounding a little like the ghost of a laugh. Disbelief. His lips curved delicately, a near trick of the light. Solas bowed his head slowly, chin tilting down as hers lifted up…their lips brushed, a gossamer touch that went no farther. A stalemate. She could feel his shallow breaths warm as the sunlight behind him. He begged but did not take, though his fingers tightened, pressing into the muscles at her back— _your move,_ he seemed to say, never closing that final distance. Because part of him was still holding back, just as she was. Her own sweat-slicked fingers curled into his chest in response—her others encircled his wrist, urging. With her ribs against his, she could feel his own heart galloping. _You're not immune either,_ she thought. She heard voices in the passage of the inn, but she couldn’t be bothered to give a damn now. He leaned in a little closer, parting his lips around the bow of hers, teasing like wet wings, _the lightest stroke of a paintbrush_ —his next breath tickled the roof of her mouth—

She felt a light tug at her back and it dawned too late.

_I’ve been had._

He saw it in her face and the most wolfish smile spread across his lips—she met his eyes with cold fury.

“The victory is mine,” Solas whispered against her mouth, pulling the flag from her waist. He lifted his head and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to the delicate skin beneath her eye. The tenderness behind it softened the blow of his deception only a little. A sweetness to quench the heat. 

“Hey! Is that Solas? I thought they were all lost ‘n shite!” a familiar, reedy voice cried. Solas immediately released her and stepped back, sliding his mask back on slowly, his grin tempering into an affectionate smile. “Droopy ears says what?”

“Sera?” they both said. She took her own step back which carried her into the barrier, not realising how close it had been during their tense moment. The wards lit up and shocked her. Her startled shout was followed by a string of curses made too loud by the frankly _overwhelming_ amount of tension Solas had left in his wake. As she was furiously dispelling the ward, she looked toward Sera and saw the rogue approaching with none other than Blackwall. 

To her side, Solas was twirling the red flag around a finger, still wearing the hints of a smile.

“What are you two doing here?” she asked, exasperation tinging her words. Sera made a farting noise, hefting her pack over her shoulder and staring between her and Solas.

“Heard you all were in danger or summat,” she said. “Beardy thought he was gonna ride in like some pissin’ shiny knight to save the Inq-sister all alone.” Blackwall sighed, rubbing at the furrow between his thick brows. They were both travel stained and just as muddy as her and Solas. 

“I’m a mite confused,” the Warden rumbled, then pointed two thick fingers at them. “Think the message got all mixed up.”

“Friggin’ right? If you two are safe, then where’s the others? Can’t still be in the swamp or else you two’d be…not here,” Sera said, spinning and glaring at the rooftops as though they’d be hiding there.

“The Inquisitor went to wait at the Sun Gate for the Sahrnia party,” Maori said. 

“Dhrui may be inside the Ivory Herring,” Solas said to Blackwall. “Although she could still be in the city, but I doubt that.” Blackwall made a disgruntled noise.

“Sure hope not. Heard about the Chevalier incident, she should know better,” he said. “Right, Sera, I’m gonna go check inside. Maybe get us a room.” 

“Pfft, go ahead, I don’t wanna watch you smack face with your lady,” Sera said, tossing a hand and walking back the way they’d come. “Bet there’s some Jenny stuff anyway.”

“You’re not going to take a bath, Fuzz? You smell like old Orlesian cheese,” Blackwall called. 

“More reason to go,” Sera said. “Mmm, _Cheeeeese.”_ And then she was gone again. The Warden seemed to take in their own appearances, though his gaze lingered on Solas.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so dirty, Solas,” he said with a friendly grin. 

“He _plays_ dirty,” she said before she could stop herself, earning an amused look from the mage. Blackwall seemed to sense the tension that was yet to clear from the air and cleared his throat. 

“Well, uh, you said Lady Lavellan would—might be in the Herring?” he said gruffly and she _knew_ he had put it together. _And so quickly. Void take me._

“I will join you after I gather my things,” she told him quickly. “Or Solas will.” Blackwall nodded and made to leave but not before he gave them both a knowing smile. When he was lumbering back across the muddy field, she turned on her heel and stalked off to collect her shirt and the transcript beneath it, sparing a glance at the boxes she’d seen Solas carrying much earlier. She sensed him approaching and straightened abruptly, tossing the too-long tunic on over her head. He bent and lifted the boxes, then held them out to her. She raised a brow, not sure what he was doing.

“The clothes you left behind,” he said, not meeting her gaze for some reason. She was taken aback.

“I…I will make sure you receive compensation,” she said, still bitter at him. His fingers covered hers as he transferred the boxes into her arms.

“I am sure you will.” Her eyes snapped up to his face, surprised at the unconcealed sultriness in his voice. He was watching her; waiting. “Soon, I hope.” An invitation. _Your move._ Her traitorous lips smiled for him and Solas turned, holding her gaze until the last possible moment before he took his leave from her company at a measured pace. If it hadn’t been for the last hour she’d spent studying his every move, she might not have caught the slight saunter to his gait or the small bounce in his step. He left her feeling light…and most of all, desired. Her fingers pressed to skin of her eye where his kiss yet lingered. She looked forward to returning the favour. 

  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my poopy art! It's what held me up all this time! (that and this chapter was a draaaaag to write)
> 
>  
> 
> [Maori does a flip ](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/185947703492/maori-tryhard-mode-activated-alternatively-when)
> 
>  
> 
> [Stylised Yrja/Maori](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/185883453702/yrja-agent-of-fenharel-maordrid-inquisitors)
> 
>  [also, if you are curious about what outfit Solas is wearing, I got the idea from his concept art because I got lazy]
> 
> Translations:  
> Solas: **Ma dasem, telsilin** : _you are holding back, worrier_  
>  Solas: **Elvyr sileal** : _simple wisdom_  
>  Solas: **Mahn ma silas vi’dirthara El’vhen? **:**** _where did you learn to speak elven?_  
>  Maori: **Elgar or vi’dirthara…i ma ghi’len** : _a spirit of language…and my mentor._  
>  Solas @ Dhrui: **Neral'nu'lin** : "One who delights in causing others pain" (Like that German word Schadenfreude)  
> Eloise: Mon petit chat: _My kitten!_  
>  Maori @ Yin: **Na hale** : _You clever/fox!_  
>  Maori: **Manaan himanemah em, ar nuven ish.** : _sea drown me, I want him_ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> Maori: **Ma esayemah** : _you may try_
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> **  
> **  
> So, my beloved is a brilliant martial art(ist?) that totally coreographed all the fights for me. I'm hoping that I was able to actually paint a semi-clear picture. Fight scenes are SO HARD to write!  
> [Butterfly kick with a staff because it's AWESOME](https://youtu.be/vbefem-b8p8?t=114)  
> 


	84. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the Dread Wolf! After posting those huge chapters, 7k feels tiny!  
> Anyway, not as exciting a chapter (maybe?) but I hope others are curious about what the other characters were up to. More or less. :)
> 
> Oh and as a forewarning, Clover=Dhrui
> 
> ALSO, I made more poopy art! It'll be in the notes below!

  


  


_Just one more damn day ruined,_ she thought while staring bleakly out the window. It wasn’t as though she had been trying to meddle, inviting Solas along. If Yin and Dorian hadn’t gone with her before, she would have had them along too. Alas, it was not to be. Dhrui was convinced Maordrid had a spirit of Misfortune following her around—if there was even such a thing—so she had begun to look for the telltale patterns of a situation gone sour. She’d caught onto the prophesied moment in Cousez Charmant a bit delayed, but quick enough that she was able to provide a distraction for her friend. She’d glimpsed Maori walk out like she was wearing the finest threads, oddly enough. _Own the moment, I guess._

After the incident, Dhrui and Solas had parted ways. She’d beelined it for the Herring, too nervous to be out alone, and sat herself in the commons with a delicious hand-pie snagged from a vendor on the way back. 

She froze as such with the food halfway to her mouth when someone knocked on the door.

_The common room door._

“It’s a room. That is common,” she called, completing her bite of buttery, doughy goodness. When the door didn’t open, she wondered if she’d warded it out of habit—it cracked open and the pie fell from her hand back to the table as a familiar bearded face poked in. His dark eyes searched the room, face grim as ever until he saw her. Then he grinned.

“My Lady,” he rumbled out and she melted like the food in her mouth, not realising just how much she’d missed his voice and accent.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” she asked, trying to keep the giddy laughter out of her own. For a moment, the Warden faltered but then grinned wider.

“Wicked woman!” he laughed, coming to sit in a chair across from her. “For a moment, I thought Solas and Maordrid might’ve been lyin’ to get me out of their hair. Well. Hers. You get it.” She snorted.

“Where did you run into them?” she asked. Blackwall laced his fingers together on the table. His black gloves were stained with mud on the tips. He must have just arrived.

“Heard some commotion behind the inn. Sera thought to check before we tracked mud into this posh place lookin’ for the group,” Blackwall snickered as if at some private joke. Dhrui’s brows went flat.

“What? Sera has a point—you know you can’t laugh at things and not tell,” she demanded. He hesitated for all of a second before scratching his dirty beard with a bushy grin.

“Remember that time on the way to Griffon Wing when I asked Solas about spirits…y’know, being _more_ than friends?” She had to wrack her brains for that one, but she did vaguely remember Solas’ stormy—and mighty petulant—response to being asked about whether he fucked spirits. Dhrui giggled.

“Yeah, that was good,” she said, popping the rest of her food into her mouth. Blackwall shifted to glance surreptitiously over his shoulder before turning back and whispering behind his glove, “Let’s just say I think he’s into getting dirty with a certain _spirited_ warrior-mage.” 

“ _Wait_ , what were they doing behind the inn?” she said, eyes wide. _Shady ass elves getting up to no good._

“Not sure. Think we caught the tail end of it, but they were both filthy,” he said. Dhrui started laughing. 

“All right, _sexual_ implications aside, what are you doing here and where is Sera?” she demanded. His face went back to its grim set as he looked up at her through his thick brows.

“I circled back because the Commander received word some of you were missing, or hadn’t made it to the city. In trouble or something,” he said. “I don’t think anyone had the right message, but I couldn’t…I couldn’t bear the thought of you lost and in the danger.” She rubbed a temple, peering at him with one eye closed.

“We _were_ in danger. Got separated for a while, but everyone is back now. Solas and Maori returned just a few days ago,” she said, then pursed her lips. “You came all this way from…wherever, for me?” He gave her a small smile.

“Would’ve looked a lot more heroic if I came in on my Warden’s steed in a full suit of armour,” he said. “Sweep the lady off her feet…” She blushed furiously and got up from the table. He followed her with his eyes. “Afraid this’ll have to do. Sorry ‘bout that.” Dhrui rounded the table, putting her hands on her hips as she stood before him wearing her sternest face.

“You broke away from the rest of the Inquisition’s forces…to come save me,” she summarised. 

“Well, to help everyone else _too_ ,” Blackwall said a bit sheepish, still looking across the table. “Sera wouldn’t let me go alone—” He cut off when she pecked him on his cheekbone, looking up at her. With a slight push back from the table, he reached up and pulled her into his lap. A giggle escaped her, stomach flopping. He’d never been that affectionate—holding himself at a distance, most times. This was…nice. “This is unwise, you know,” he said, lowering his voice. 

“Riding across Thedas to come look for us was unwise,” she chided. “The Sahrnia party was already on their way.” 

“Consider it my contribution to the Inquisition,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “It almost sounds as though you aren’t happy to see me, Lady Lavellan.” Dhrui stared at him for a fraction of a heartbeat before kissing him, just a quick peck on the lips. He seemed just as surprised as she was. Her feelings for him had always been a little weird, like tiptoeing in a place she had no business being in. Thrilling, but ultimately wondering if it was worth getting committed to a person. Because then things got complicated…and then there was the mission she was sharing with Maori—

Blackwall kissed her back, cutting of all other thought. When they broke apart, she felt the tips of her ears go red with her cheeks, then she scurried out of his lap with a wild giggle. 

“You need a room,” she said, then backpedaled at his surprised look, “N-Not for that reason! Ugh, you old pervert! It’s because this place is stupid and I don’t know where Yin is…and—why did I kiss you when you smell like you’ve been living in sewage!” Blackwall laughed heartily and got out of his chair.

“It’s good to see you again,” he smiled. “You’re right. I can smell myself. I guess I should go figure out where Sera and I’ll be staying tonight. Else it’s the stables.”

“You already sleep in a barn,” she said. 

“I’ll admit, it’s tempting. I’m not fond of these upstanding establishments. Always smell like someone dumped an entire vat of perfume on the floor,” he said, then added, “And not the good perfume.” She raised a brow.

“What, like Lady Josephine’s?” Blackwall went pale.

“W-What?” he stammered. She laughed, looking up at the ceiling.

“These ears hear all things, dear Warden. Such as, you had eyes for the darling Ambassador before I crashed into your life.” He chuckled nervously, running a hand through greasy hair with shifty eyes. It wasn’t like she was disappointed that he’d been eyeing up other women. She wasn’t really the jealous type. It’d be better if Blackwall was more open to talking about who he liked to undress with his eyes. In the little time they’d spent at Skyhold, Sera had been a perfect partner to sit with and play the _marry, bed, kill_ game with. Blackwall was too much of a self-proclaimed gentleman to do that with. _Or_ , _surprise, it is all right to want a man who only looks at me,_ some tiny part of her whispered.

He made a growling cough in his throat, fretting with the end of a glove.

“I suppose I’ll be off then. Sera and I will be back in the morning after we’ve rested,” he said. Her brow wrinkled.

“What, not going to stay here?” she asked, not bothering to hide her disappointment. He shook his head.

“Nah. There’s a place I used to stay at that’s more accommodating to people like me and Sera,” he said, casting a stink eye around the immaculate commons they stood in. “Feel like if I fart the wrong way, I’ll break something in the next room.” Dhrui repressed a laugh at the imagery by nodding.

“Fine, didn’t care about where you’d be sleeping anyway. Not like I won’t find out,” she said with a wink. Blackwall bowed slightly and the two of them departed the oddly private commonroom. When he left, he did not do so without first kissing her hand. Watching him leave, she expected him to stand tall and walk proud as a Warden did…but instead, she thought as he got farther down the street, his shoulders seemed only to droop and his back to hunch. _Broody-ass heroes. Maybe I do have a type,_ she thought. And that was the weirdest thought she had the rest of the day.

  


\----------------------------

**[Somewhere in Orlais, Though Varric Tethras Has Stopped Caring About Where and is Now Concerned with When]**

  


Thedas was a mess. There was an eternal winter in the south, puddles that could drown a person, forests with floors that had never seen the light, deserts with darkspawn and other hellish creatures—but wait that was everywhere else too—and then there was the north, over the Waking Sea. Things got a little bit better up there, but not by much. Kirkwall, his own personal hell, was sandwiched between an ocean—he couldn't swim—and Tevinter, somewhere so far north he didn't much care. 

Varric really wasn't cut out for this shit, and he made sure everyone knew it.

If it wasn’t for the saving grace that these horribly unpleasant adventures made for fantastic stories—no, seriously _fantastic_ , because no one was going to believe anything that happened to him—then he would much rather be back in Kirkwall drinking himself into a stupor with Hawke, Fenris—maybe not him, he and Hawke fought too much—and...well, Yin would be welcome if he wasn't Inquisitor. He liked the kid. He was kind hearted and had a great sense of humour that paired well with Hawke’s. Sometimes he felt like distancing himself from bright souls like him because he felt like he could see their strings of fate, lowering slowly over the edge of a blade. Hawke had defied his expectations—she'd lived through hell and was still living it. Sometimes he thought maybe Hawke _was_ hell itself. 

Except, Vyr didn't have a magical mark like Charmer. A magical scar that, on some days, seemed to shrink and expand like the jellyfish that he'd found occasionally along the Wounded Coast.

It was killing Charmer and he was smiling about it. _Always_ smiling and he wondered if he was secretly screaming on the inside. It was chilling to think of him in that light.

On a slightly more upbeat note, Varric was happier than a mabari in a butcher's shop to be out of that red lyrium-infested ice purgatory. His motley company wasn't half bad either, despite their yawning differences.

That brought him back to Yin. The bearded elf had changed since he'd first met him and Solas up on that frozen mountain. He had changed everyone in turn—like they were all part of some insane patchworked weave, just sort of doing their own thing until Yin thrust his green hand into the fabric and pulled, taking them all with him. 

Cassandra, for instance, was noticeably changed. From the stuffy, stiff, and staunch Seeker, Yin had charmed her a little. She joked now and talked about things beyond the Inquisition. It was weird. Sometimes he thought she even flirted. _At him_ , even. That was...weird, but not totally unwelcome. It was kind of cute, in a gangly, awkward sort of way. Her gullibility was hilarious and was often something he and Iron Bull took full advantage of. 

Iron Bull himself was an interesting guy, though Varric had initially been a bit wary of him—how could be not after Kirkwall? Eh, but he had a decent sense of humour once he got past the weird Ben Hassrath stuff. The Qunari didn’t act anything like any of the spies he had met in his day, which again, slightly awkward, but by this point in their journey he didn't care too much.

And Cole, well...Cole was still Cole. He was probably listening to all of his internal dialogue.

"I am." Yup. He liked the kid, despite the weird. He was trying to teach him how to make jokes though it was a slow process. Varric hoped that by the time they reached Val Royeaux he'd be able to join them in a tavern and tell some good ones. Wishful thinking.

_Hopeful_ thinking was praying to the Maker that they didn't have to go searching for the missing Inquisitor, Chuckles, and Nightshade—or Teacup as Tiny called her and he found that more fitting than anything.

He wasn't sure who else was gone. Cassandra was still high strung about that, but he was pretty sure it was because she saw Yin as a good friend. All of them did at this point. When they'd received word that even Chuckles and Teacup were M.I.A., he knew the situation was bad. They were two elven apostates that intentionally got themselves lost—that they'd gotten unintentionally lost _and_ were stuck being lost, they knew it was serious. Especially when that report came all the way from Skyhold. Apparently, Curly had barely made it back to the keep before turning back and hightailing it to the fastest ship across the Waking. Not sure what business he had other than standing by the War Table and looking like a gallant knight, but he knew that if Cullen left Skyhold for any reason, shit was serious.

Varric reached up over his shoulder to pat Bianca. A sort of gesture to bring him comfort, he supposed. He was never really one to get worked up over stuff. Maybe he was a little worried about Hawke after Adamant too. She seemed torn between staying to see Corypheus ended and taking off to keep an eye on the remaining Wardens, since Alistair was staying with the Inquisition. It kind of rankled him to think that his friend thought she needed to babysit a bunch of guys that weren't even her responsibility. _Go back home and hole up in the Hanged Man. Wait for me._ She'd laughed at him and said she didn't want to go back. That...that had hurt. Kirkwall was their _home_. Had been for a long time. He hoped that wasn't her way of saying goodbye. Somehow, he didn't know what was worse—if she had stayed behind in the Fade like she'd confessed she almost did or...never returning to Kirkwall.

"Shit," Varric muttered, running a hand across his eyes. 

"Twinkletoes doesn't want to leave you either," the Kid said from behind him. Cole had a way of materialising on the back of his pony, sitting on Kipper's rump like some pale gargoyle. "But sitting in the sky too long makes her itchy. _Can't sit still, skin prickling, not from the cold, I'm needed but not here..."_

"Yeah, I never expected Hawke to stick around in someone else's castle too long."

"The only ones she likes to be beneath are the sun and sky. Not commanded or controlled." He chuckled a little.

"Yep, that's Twinkletoes."

"Who is Cole talking about, Varric?" Cassandra called from the head of their group.

"Oh, Hawke," he admitted reluctantly.

"She left, I take it," she said with a sigh. "Maker give her safe passage."

"I'm surprised you're not going to shout my ear off again about stopping her from leaving," he said. Cassandra turned her head so that a sharp cheekbone poked up over her fur-lined collar.

"I know now that Hawke will go and do whatever she pleases. If she does decide to follow the Wardens, I do not agree or disagree with her choice. They need to be watched, but we also need whatever help we can rally for the fight against Corypheus."

"I know, Seeker." Silence descended the group again. Briefly.

"Cole, we are getting closer to Val Royeaux--is it possible that you could...sense the Inquisitor? Or any of the others?" Varric looked ahead of their procession along the road, hoping to see at least some sign of the city. It remained hidden by country and trees.

_"The skin is still stiff. Blood feels boggy sometimes. Too much goat, maybe."_

Iron Bull laughed to the side.

"Sounds like Reaving gone wrong. Someone drink goat's blood instead of dragon's?" He asked. Cole didn't answer. Cassandra sighed.

"We'll get there when we get there, Seeker. Plodding on is all we can do. Whomever waits for us in the city will know where to go better than any of the missives," Varric found himself saying. Comforting Cassandra? Maybe Charmer had impacted him too. "Just promise me we can get an ale before we traipse on from the city again? Water makes me thirsty."

"I’ll second that," Bull grumbled. "And a whole hock of lamb in that brown gravy the cook at Skyhold throws together. _Hnnng_."

"Don't go getting me started on food luxuries again, Tiny," Varric warned with a grin. 

"Yeah, but you describe food so well—I can almost taste it!" Bull said and his stomach agreed as loud as a baby dragon. He pointed at it indignantly, single eye widening as if saying _you hearing this shit?_

"What, like _the glazed lamb sat on the silver platter, garnished with slivered almonds and horseradish, the meat curvy and supple in the warm light of a cooking fire. So tender, it parts under your teeth like pudding and melts on your tongue like the butter that bastes it..._?"

"I'll admit, I'm a little aroused by that innocent lamb," Bull said. 

"Keep it in your pants, Bull," Cassandra drawled and the two of them laughed. 

  
——————————————

  


They reached Val Royeaux late that night and proceeded to the prescribed Ivory Herring Inn—then very nearly walked back out. It was one perhaps the only time Varric had considered calling in Blondie to perform another explosion. He’d met a lot of irksome characters—more than any favourable ones—but by far, the man that ran the place made it somewhere near the top of his list. Mostly because getting an answer out of him was proving to be more of a task than killing Corypheus. The Seeker was just trying to find out if the Inquisitor was there but the man kept insisting he had no idea who she was talking about. Probably upset that Cassandra had woken him up from his ‘beauty sleep’. Behind her back, Varric went so far to even ask Cole if he could glean some insight, but even the kid couldn’t get into a skull that dense.

“You know you’re talking to the Right Hand of the Divine?” Varric chimed in, trying to speed up the process. They were all tired and manners were bordering on _none_. 

“The _late_ Divine,” the Orlesian perfume box corrected. “And therefore nothing but another ruffian come to soil my inn!”

“Who are you calling ruffian, you—” Varric placed a hand on Cassandra’s sword arm and shook his head minutely before nodding up past the man’s head. There was a dimly lit stairwell and coming down it were a pair of glowing elven eyes.

Teacup took in their company, looking just as surprised as the rest of them. For once, she wasn’t ragged. No, she actually cleaned up _pretty_. He’d always thought Daisy was cute, but...no, Teacup was _lovely._ It helped that she was wearing far nicer clothes than he’d ever seen her in. Maybe it was just the lighting. His tired, overactive writer’s brain. That was until Bull whistled under his breath and he knew he wasn’t the only one. 

“You’re alive!” Cassandra gasped. 

“We all are,” she replied. Hearing her talk again brought a pang of something unpleasant in his gut. Like it should have been familiar but he had never been able to place it. Her eerie glowing eyes settled on the service man. “His rooms matter more than keeping guests. Shall I fetch the Inquisitor?”

“That would be well, if possible,” Cassandra informed her. Teacup inclined her head and disappeared back the way she’d come. The Seeker turned to the other human. “Unless _you_ have objections?”

“Stay out of my rooms,” the Orlesian sneered. 

“The Ambassador of the Inquisition _will_ be hearing about this,” Cassandra said in an imperial voice. The threat didn’t seem to hold any weight with the man, judging by the way he turned and went back to whatever closet he was sleeping in, like some grumpy guard dog.

“So, not a rescue mission after all,” Bull said, leaning against a smooth white pillar. “Good thing I sent the Chargers back to Skyhold.”

“Question is, what do we do now that we’re here?” Varric said, a little rhetorically. 

“We will reserve that decision for the Inquisitor,” Cassandra said and straightened when the man himself emerged from the hall, followed by everyone else from his party.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Varric said, taking in all the surprised faces. “Everyone’s in one piece!” All eyes on Charmer’s side of the room landed on the Inquisitor. He could _feel_ the amusement. “I sense a story.” Yin smirked.

“Quite,” Dorian deadpanned. Bull grumbled and held out a small linen pouch of gold for Varric. “So. Late night conversation or do we wait until the morning?” Cassandra’s hawkish eyes slid over to where the Orlesian had disappeared.

“I think now is good,” she said airily. Behind Varric, Bull’s stomach growled again. Yin gave them all a grin.

“C’mon, Dhrui will sneak into the kitchen for you while we take over the commons,” he said and his sister disappeared into another side hall. As a large unit, they followed their leader into a darkened commons where Solas lit lanterns and candles while they all got situated in the comfortable chairs. Varric made sure to shake off some of the red mud caked around the edges of his boots and he saw Cassandra stepping a little bit more forcefully than normal across the fine rugs.

Without preamble, the ‘missing’ party began to recount their mishap in the Nahashin Marshes. Everything was pretty much expectedly unexpected—another instance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time for Yin Lavellan. There was a little input here and there from Solas and Maordrid with their side of the story, little from Dhrui, and then there was Sparkler who came in and upset the whole balance. They were eating what Clover had scrapped together—some delicious flatbread with jam, an option of cheese, and sliced fruit—that was nearly wasted on the ground when Cassandra flew out of her seat, absolutely livid.

“You _died_?” Cassandra practically shouted. “ _Inquisitor!_ How could you be so reckless?” Charmer threw a glare at Sparkler while nervously keeping his eyes on the incensed Seeker before him.

“We’ve gone over this already,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“You could have…taken extra precautions! How were you unable to sense that there were demons amongst you?” she continued. 

“They were not _normal_ demons, Cassandra,” Yin insisted. “They were perfect imitations of our friends.”

“Not really _perfect_ ,” Dorian interjected with a glance at Teacup and Chuckles, “but I concede the point.” Cassandra shook her head and sat back in her chair, stewing.

“Thank you for keeping our only hope of saving Thedas alive, Tevinter,” she said, begrudging. Yin lay his forehead on the table, murmuring in tongues.

“As much as I am glad that he is alive, I’d like to never be put in that position again,” Dorian said, prim as ever.

“Noted— _again_ ,” Yin said, pushing up to observe them all. “Are we done here?”

“Aw, so eager to get us out of your hair? We’ve only just arrived!” Varric said, _really_ not wanting to get back on his feet again. He’d was content just reclining in his chair, damned be that stuffy Orlesian.

“We should get moving and find another place before the innkeepers retire for the night,” Cassandra announced, standing up. Yin fluttered a hand.

“Come back here in the morning. We’ll discuss plans and adjustments when you’re all fresh. Unless…you all need a day to rest?” he asked, taking them all in again. “It would be only fair. Everyone else has had time to recover.” Cassandra opened her mouth, but Cole interjected, “They won’t say it but they are tired too.”

“Thanks, Cole. Then it’s set. We have an appointment tomorrow for something anyway,” Yin said, surveying them all for reactions. Cassandra stewed, but nodded curtly and even waited patiently for Varric and Bull to finish scarfing down their small snack. They left the Ivory Herring still hungry, but yearning for a bed and a good night’s rest that they hadn’t had since leaving Skyhold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Yin woke entangled in soft Orlesian sheets with Dorian pressed up against his back and one of his arms draped loosely over his waist. He felt lips press against his shoulderblade as Dorian joined him in the waking world. 

“You could almost pretend we’re not here on world-saving business,” Dorian said, rolling away to stretch his limbs. 

“If only our companions didn’t keep getting turned away from the inn. Or if our other friends hadn’t been all packed into a room specifically for elves,” Yin groused, forcing himself to get out of the bed. “But that insufferable louse is willing to look past the sin of the Inquisitor being one for sake of saving face.”

“True. Although, Maori may or may not have deserved to get stuck with Solas. Maker knows how flustered she gets in close quarters. Your sister is undoubtedly having too much fun torturing them.” Dorian sat on the edge of the bed, flicking his hands through his dark, silky tresses.

“I thought you said the two of you had made amends?” Yin asked as he filled the wash basin with water from a vase.

“Yes, but I enjoy watching two quiet but destructive objects circle each other until inevitably colliding dramatically. They’ve resisted the pull of one another’s gravity longer than anyone bet on, so there’s that,” Dorian said, getting dressed on his side. “It is a tad disturbing how many little details your sister knows of their relationship. Or whatever you want to call it.” Yin laughed fondly, splashing his face and drying off with his shirt.

“I never even asked who won the BRAHT match,” he said more to himself. He _really_ hoped Solas ground her into the mud yesterday.

“My bet is on the feisty small one,” Dorian remarked, disappearing into their bathing chamber. Yin rocked on the balls of his feet, recalling the steamy, floral smelling bath they’d shared the previous night.

The two of them left the apartments and ventured down the halls to find the commons. The main lobby was empty of people, but through the gold-lacquered door frame of the commons the other three were waiting eating plates of fruit and drinking tea. 

“I hope you all haven’t been completely deprived of a sound mind and restful sleep,” Yin said, helping himself to a few tropical fruits he hadn’t seen since before leaving his clan. 

“Two beds, a sad tub, and a single window? No privacy? It could be worse,” Dhrui said brightly. “Like bugs in the mattresses and stains on the sheets.” 

“The halls must be haunted with spirits that decide to moan at inconvenient times in the night,” Maori said with a pointed look at him and Dorian. Dhrui almost inhaled her tea laughing. Solas raised a brow without looking at her.

“ _You_ slept on the rooftop,” he pointed out. 

“Yes, because the roof is thicker than the walls!” she protested. 

“Do not come to me when you roll off and break something,” he said, chewing a berry slowly while meeting her unamused stare. The small exchange had a _ridiculous_ amount of tension to it. If Yin hadn’t talked to Maori in the training yard, he wouldn’t have even picked it up. But Solas’ gaze flicked down to her lips when she pressed a blueberry to them. _Sweet halla milk, Solas!_ he thought with secret amusement.

“Trust me, I won’t. Yin is an exceptional healer,” she said turning her gaze to him with a sweet smile to which he winked. At this point, it was hard not to be grinning ear to ear. Solas looked mildly offended but covered it up with a sip of whatever he was drinking.

“Yin won’t be able to heal you if he’s tied to the bedposts,” Dhrui remarked in a deadpan voice. Everyone groaned and began loudly protesting her indiscretion. 

“ _Well,_ I for one cannot wait to hear what Josephine does once she learns of this place,” Dorian said loudly, inspecting his nails. “Maybe she’ll put this place out of business—or claim it for the Inquisition.” 

“Speaking of places, our appointment we’re going to for fitting is actually renowned for its armour craftsmanship,” Yin said. 

“Are you seriously considering armour for the talks?” Dhrui laughed. Maori raised her hand slowly. “You don’t count, your armour is literally part of you.”

“I’m not going to go in traditional Dalish First garb. Or Antivan lord robes,” Yin said, rebuffing the idea. “Trust me, I have a vision. We’re all going to go in looking shiny and sharp.” 

“If the Lord Inquisitor so wishes,” Dhrui said. Yin flicked a blueberry at her. When everyone finished their small breakfasts, they set out from the inn to seek a place to wait where they wouldn’t receive glares and sneers from uppity inn guests.

An hour later, they sat in a quiet pleasure garden still clinging to its grasses and flowers. Yin was glancing between the stack of papers in addition to his journal trapped beneath his hands. One pile was of missives with a little paperwork sent from Skyhold. His journal was open to the list of things he needed to do, and on the side, he had a hastily scribbled map of Val Royeaux and his own crappy drawing of Thedas condensed to a wrinkled sheet of parchment.

The others were perched in various places around him engrossed in their own studies. Even Dhrui was looking through a book likely borrowed from Solas.

“How much longer are we going to be here?” Maori asked while making notes in her own book, sounding like a _da’len_ that did not want to do chores. Yin hummed.

“Dunno. I’m planning out routes back to Skyhold though. It’d be nice to go home, at least for a little while,” he said. Maori lowered her tome, considering him thoughtfully. He sighed, then beckoned her over. She joined him, squatting on the sad, frostbitten grass where he had everything spread. 

“A ‘Forbidden Oasis’ as notated by the scouts, the Hissing Wastes, and another elven temple to the northeast,” she immediately pointed out. “We could not have detoured around to the desert locations while we were there?” The others all looked up with varying levels of irritation.

“Oh, don’t give me that! You all had _days_ to make suggestions! And…we—you found _a_ temple,” he defended. “I have a lot on my mind, all right?”

“It is no trouble, Inquisitor. Perhaps instead of taking the voyage across the sea, we could circle around the long way,” Solas suggested. Yin regarded the map and the little wax markers stuck to its surface.

“That is what I am thinking. We will stay here until Cullen comes through with a lead, however,” he said, tracing the map with his eyes as if Samson’s hideout would magically sprout its own marker.

“That elven ruin is not far from here. A few days by horseback, perhaps.” Maori poked the map with the stem of her pipe in two places.

“That's funny, because that's the actual temple of Dirthamen our people uncovered,” he said, scratching his beard. He paused, glancing at her. “Is it just your adventurous spirit or are you nervous to be here, Maori?” She snorted, taking a draw off her brier.

“Ordinarily, I steer clear of cities. Before the Circles disbanded it was dangerous for an apostate to get anywhere close to them. Pardon me for appearing shiftier than usual,” she said. 

“I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” He wasn’t sure why he felt wounded by the surprised look on her face. As if she had forgotten his promise in Haven all those months ago. _Gods, it feels like it has been a year since then._

“I suppose you did,” she said around her pipe. He patted her shoulder. 

“We’re gonna unwind after we get our other duties out of the way. And before we go tramping into anymore musty forgotten death holes. You’re welcome to join in on it, if you like.” She snorted.

“Sure you want to visit another temple of his?” she asked. Solas looked over the edge of his own book at them.

“If it means interfering with Corypheus’ plans, should we not?” he remarked. She blew out a stream of smoke and levelled a look at him over her shoulder. “We saw what power lay in that temple. Allowing it to fall into his hands…”

“That was meant to be a rhetorical joke, but since you made it serious - yes, we should absolutely go,” she said, turning back to scrutinise his map. Solas bit his lip and shook his head at her, setting his book down in his lap. Maori continued in thought, pressing a thumb to her bottom lip as she peered at the map, “Might be better now that we have more people.”

“Or worse,” Dorian piped up.

“No one asked for your negativity, Vint,” Maori shot though it lacked true seriousness. 

“And so the kettle calls the cauldron black,” Dorian said, licking a thumb and turning a page in his own book. Yin tapped a finger on the map, considering the added markers representing each person in the Inner Circle. 

“Maybe I’ll delegate again,” he said, drawing everyone’s gazes this time. “What about splitting into groups again—this second temple of Dirthamen’s isn’t far. One group would head out a day or two early and catch us while we go east back into the desert?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet, amatus? The others are probably still passed out in their beds,” Dorian said. “I know I wouldn’t be pleased to wake up only to find out that I’m being sent out again.”

“It wouldn’t be immediate, you fruit! We’ve still got the University—which, speaking of, we will go pay a visit to our favourite Professor _after_ we have done everything else today.” Yin twirled his stick of charcoal between his fingers, eyeing everyone. “Now, of the _immediate_ group, is there anyone who wants to volunteer to go to the other ‘Lost Temple’?” He saw Solas’ eyes narrow in on Maori who did the same, raising her gaze to his subtly. Something seemed to pass between them, unspoken. The two of them had been exchanging glances ever since the inn, thinking no one else had noticed. But even in the times before, Maori always seemed to have a bit of a challenge behind hers, while Solas’ was all serene. He thought it amusing that when one was sneaking a glance, there was nothing but glowing fondness in it. It reminded him of the way he caught Dorian looking at him some days. Though seeing it in Solas and Maori was different. It was…powerful. Intense. Perhaps because it was so rare to see them show much of any emotion.

“You will want someone in the party who has already experienced the magic there,” Maori said, tearing her eyes away from Solas who started glaring at the side of her face. “So, I nominate myself.” Dhrui looked about to protest, but then she shook her head and continued reading. Dorian waved a finger lazily through the air and pointed at Solas just as he opened his mouth.

“I don’t want to presume, but I’m gonna presume our elven expert would like to go with? The group will need a proficient healer,” Yin said. Solas seemed to contemplate the decision, closing his mouth again, eyebrows drawing down. 

“It is probably for the best,” he sighed. 

“Do you think Cole would be a good asset as well?” Yin asked, taking notes. 

“Certainly,” Solas said. 

“Good. Then I’ll see if one of our warriors will accompany you.” Maori made a disgruntled noise that had Yin blinking at her. “ _You_ need practise at ranged attacks, don’t give me any of that lip, woman.”

“Call her _mamae,_ she loves that,” Dhrui said and screeched at the ice that ran down her back.

“I don’t think I want to know the story there,” Dorian said, wholly uninterested.

“It is nothing worth sharing anyway,” Solas said quickly. _Wrong thing to say,_ Yin thought when Dorian looked piqued.

“If _Solas_ is advising against a story, it has to be good,” the Altus grinned. 

“Another time,” Yin interjected, deciding to spare them. The central bell tower began to ring just on time. They’d exactly two hours left. “And that’s our cue to be on our way. Shall we?” 

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


On the way there, Dorian made the request that they make a stop in a rather high-end shoppe called the Doré Bobine, because apparently, he wasn’t satisfied with sharing the same outfitter with everyone else. The Doré Bobine offered tailoring for mages, although one would have to take the schematics to an enchanter as they did not ‘dabble’ with magic. Dorian went ahead and began describing his remarkable vision of an outfit to the business owner while Yin and the others milled about looking at the spools of expensive cloth and various wooden mannequins bearing their creations. 

He wasn’t offended when they left him alone with Dorian. On the other hand, he sat down on a cushioned bench as he watched the tailor take measurements of his lover. Dorian stood before a five panelled mirror with his head raised, staring into the reflection. Yin couldn’t help but smile proudly—the man somehow made being measured look like the most dignified thing ever. He’d muscles for a mage, of which he made sure to kiss as often as he could in their moments alone. He longed to draw his fingers through his black hair, but Dorian had nearly burned his hands off for even trying the first few times. Even if all he could do was admire Dorian from a distance for the rest of his days, he decided he could easily do so. He wished he could. That thought bred darker ones. Ones he’d been avoiding for days. Perhaps he should have told Dorian when he’d asked after his mental health, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that there was something wrong. Yin had had a difficult time disassociating the feelings and memories that the demon had forced upon him. They had never really faded. Betrayal was harder to rinse out than blood on white cotton. He was trying though. 

“Ah, the famous thousand league stare.” Yin snapped out of his thoughts to see Dorian standing before him, belting on his cloak. The tailor was already done and he had completely missed it. “Are you feeling well?” Yin nodded and walked with him to wait for merchant at the front of the shop.

“You going to let me see the schematics?” he asked once they had paid and left the Doré Bobine. Dorian clutched the leather tube holding them and shook his head. 

“No, I like to build up suspense,” he said, twirling his moustache. “I do like to see it all release.” Yin laughed and pulled him close, slinging his arm over his shoulders as they rejoined the others. They followed him along several streets as he tried to match his advisor’s directions to the ornate streets of Val Royeaux. 

“Is that it?” Maordrid asked, coming to a stop just outside of a grey facade with a mahogany door set in it. It was flanked by two tall white pillars supporting a frieze bearing masonry that was suspiciously elven in nature. A small wooden plaque on nondescript wooden doors read in flowing golden script, _‘Deux Poindre’._

“Two Points? Is that its name? Does that mean it’s elven for ears? Or is it in reference to something phallic?” Dhrui said with a quiet laugh. Yin opened the door and proceeded in with the others. For all of its lack of typical Orlesian ornateness outside, it was anything but on the inside. There were several displays bearing varying sets of armour and normal clothes. Hanging on the walls were massive paintings of tranquil, natural scenes from across Thedas, as well as a collection of clearly antique weapons, shields, and beastly trophies. If the sign on the door hadn’t matched what Leliana had written, he would have thought they just walked into a wealthy expeditioner’s mansion.

“If it is elven, it doesn’t look it,” Yin said, inspecting a display of Chevalier armour. “Don’t get me wrong, it looks…well, let’s just say I’d like to see if Dagna could match this.”

“It is possible they put their human works in the front to avoid losing their wealthier customers,” Solas commented. 

“Astute observation, Messere. I fear you are correct.” The owner of the voice emerged from a doorway easily hidden by the decor around it. The man that had appeared was an older human wearing a fine royal purple vest over an immaculate white shirt. He was cleaning his hands off with a cloth as he walked over to meet them. “Ah! Our long-anticipated appointees! I gather you are the Inquisitor himself, no?” 

“None other,” Yin said with a bow. The human nodded, surveying the others with friendly eyes.

“Then allow me to show you the true masterwork, hm? You are lucky, the woman that runs this place made sure her schedule was clear today. She will be most happy to suit your needs,” the man said with a gracious bow. He turned on his heel and beckoned to them over his shoulder. The others followed in palpably surprised silence.

“This is…interesting,” Dorian murmured to Yin. “A clever operation. I wonder how many other establishments are like this in the city.”

“I don’t know, but I already like the looks of it,” Yin said and walked into the next room feeling giddy. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I drew/painted (attempted to) some lost elves!  
> [Solas & Maori!](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/186110069832/maori-solas-from-my-dai-time-travel-au-the)  
> It's from the scene from 'Speak Your Silence' right after they get out of Dirthamen's creep cave. The pose and the environment aren't really accurate to what I described but that's because I'm still learning how to art lol
> 
> Also, as another aside, I'm not going to even try keeping a real schedule because it seems to curse my ability to post. :>


	85. Himanal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **[Himanal]**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> _The elven word for drowning; becoming water_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Me:] aw ye, Maori + Solas, here we go!  
> [Brain:] {laughing sinisterly}  
> [Me:] *steadfastedly ignores*  
> [Brain:] Do u remember Solavellan hell  
> [Me:] PLeaSE don't do this to me  
> [Brain]: But I wrote a poem, don't u wanna hear it?  
> [Me]: Can't rly stop you...  
> [Brain]:  
>  _{Solas, but why, say i_  
>  _because this world must die,_  
>  _Solas sigh_  
>  _then i cri_  
>  _'cause i dun wanna say g'bye}_  
>  [Me]: ;-;  
> [Brain]: :3  
> [Brain]: also, blackwall  
> [Me]: *anguished screeching*

  


  


Maordrid knew at once where they were headed as they turned down the quiet shaded street. She also knew that _Solas_ did, especially when they both came to a stop just a few paces past it without even looking at the plaque on the door. Neither let on anything—it simply looked as though she had stopped when he did to wait for the others while the two of them continued bickering about teas that didn’t taste like grass. She hadn’t been expecting to come here with everyone. _That means Solas must have reached out a tendril to our mutuals. Interesting._

Yin paused beside her, glancing down at the note in his hand and then up at the door. She leaned over his arm, pretending to read it and then glanced at the plaque.

“Is that it?” she asked, pointing to it. Yin walked up to it and opened the door without ceremony. As they all gathered inside, she hung near the back and watched Solas who was looking toward the back door—completely ignoring the decor that everyone else had been arrested by. 

A man came to greet them moments after they’d entered and then invited them into the back. They went down a staircase and through a vault door—cleverly disguised with handiwork that only her and Solas would recognise—and into the true operation beneath the human front. She took stock of the workshop that was vastly different than what was displayed out front. Just about everything was elven but with influences from other cultures. After all, the owners couldn’t just produce and sell ancient elvhen armour and expect to remain below the gaze of keen scholars looking for pieces of the past. There were weapons, accessories, clothing, and a plethora of other random projects that the creators had made on a whim.

An elf emerged from yet another doorway wearing a blacksmith’s apron and long protective gloves. She surveyed them swiftly, as a spy would, and smiled. 

“I’ve awaited this day for many weeks, Inquisitor! I am truly honoured. _Andaran atishan,_ friends,” Elgalas said, pulling a glove off as she strode across the room, offering her hand. Yin shook it graciously, eyes wide with wonder.

“This place is astonishing,” he said, finally pulling his gaze away from the room to look at the black-eyed elf who was clearly committing his face to memory.

“My thanks, Inquisitor. I assume you are here in search of something that will truly emphasise your person and demand attention properly befitting a man of your calibre.” Elgalas must have felt her amusement as she turned her onyx gaze to the rest of them.

“Ah, yes, my friends and I are due to attend an Orlesian party in the future, though I imagine you know that through your correspondences with my advisors,” Yin said. “Where are my manners? This is the esteemed Lord Dorian Pavus, my sister Dhrui Lavellan, my dear friend, mentor, and Fade expert, Solas, and last but not least, friend and mentor, Maordrid.” Elgalas bowed straight-legged to them all and then invited them to come farther into the vault. 

“Unfortunately, I am the only one working the shop today, so if we are to try and fit you all in…it may take some time to do so,” Elgalas said. “In the meantime, please, feel free to wander and inspect.” 

“Oh, to the rest of you—consider _two_ sets of armour. You can’t very well go scuffing up the nice stuff before the date,” Yin told them, then followed the chattering double-agent into another room. Maordrid let out a controlled, quiet sigh and gave a start when Solas appeared at her shoulder, jerking his head to the side. She followed him into another room where several projects more strongly resembled that of ancient raiment. 

“I recognise some of the styles here from ancient memories in the Fade. They have near replicated elvhen style perfectly,” Solas gushed with enthusiasm, reaching out to run his fingers along a grey-black cloak lined with silver. It looked identical to the one she had seen him wearing on numerous occasions in the other timeline. She knew he didn’t get his armour from Elgalas, but from some secret armoury of his elsewhere. 

“I once tripped into an ancient temple of June years ago when I was fleeing Templars. Seems to be a reoccurring theme with me,” she said, eyes falling upon an enchanted circlet sitting atop a display of elaborate mage’s robes. “Anyway, all of its entrances had been buried save for where I had fallen through. I found something of an arsenal of ancient armour. Most of it was deteriorated, though my stumbling intrusion likely dispelled what little preservation wards remained. I remember the pieces that had survived were…beautiful. Intricate.” 

“There are not many places remaining in such condition,” Solas said, moving on to admire a painting. “Did you take anything? I imagine you could find little better armour.” She snorted.

“Some gauntlets and pauldrons, but that was all that fit me. It was not much, but it lasted me a near decade before they were too damaged to be functional.” She caught sight of a bandolier in a corner, draped across a wooden torso that was otherwise bare. The metal panels along it appeared made of enchanted obsidian and Veil-quartz making it appear dark green and silver like his magic. There were beautiful whorls and thorns etched into the metal as a finish touch. She lifted it from its stand and padded over to where he had his back turned, hands clasped behind his back as he studied something else on the wall. She cleared her throat. He turned around, eyes on hers as she lifted it to his shoulder. When he attempted to look down, she stopped him with a hand beneath his chin.

“Ah-ah, no looking,” she said, then hastily removed it and hid it behind her back. _A Satinalia gift. It needs to be paired with something else, though._ She wandered off in thought, eye catching on several things at once. She sensed him behind her before it was his turn to settle something on the crown of her head. 

“You can never let me have the moment, can you?” she said, rotating to face him. His hands fixed the circlet—?—on her head, then stepped back to appraise his work.

“I have allowed you the last word on several occasions. I have been remiss in doing so,” he said quietly, picking loose a few strands of her hair about the circlet. “Robbing myself of the chance to watch you overcome impediments when it is a sight to behold.” She reached up to flick his ear but he caught her hand with his, then brought her fingers to his lips. All her blood rushed to her face and she felt his damnable, beautiful mouth smile beneath the pads of her fingers. She had to forcibly regain her composure, but was unable to resist the shudder that wriggled free of her control. 

_“And here I was willing to call us equals in battle,_ ” she said in elvish, retrieving her hand. _“I will have to play dirty like you. Just remember, you asked for it.”_

“This one does not quite fit you,” he said ignoring her and removing the circlet from her head. _Self-assured tit._ She wandered away, also wondering what he was playing at. What did he want from her?

“Do you have an idea of what you are going to ask of the crafter? For your peace talk garb, that is,” she asked to distract herself. “Because I do if you do not.” He hummed with amusement.

“Oh?” 

“Armour, Solas?” She stepped up behind a full mannequin displaying partial leg armour with leather wraps beneath instead of mail. A light breast plate hid behind a black tabard, belted in place with a braiding of leather around the waist. The pauldrons were elegant but nowhere near as imposing as the ones his alternate self wore. The display was a mere black and burnished gold theme, nothing too impressive.

“That is…” He raised his eyebrows as if he wasn’t quite sure he liked it. 

“Yin did say he wanted us to look _sharp_ ,” she said. He would look more than that. He would look ravishing— _and_ with Elgalas’ and Tahiel’s combined works, he would find almost no better protection in terms of enchantments. 

“Next you will be asking _me_ to summon a spirit sword and an Aegis.”

“ _Or_ I am simply looking for practicality over pretty clothes that will only be worn for one occasion. Good armour like this could last you a while. You said so yourself,” she said, running her fingers along the metal at the mannequin’s thigh. He stepped close once again shadowing her and drawing her gaze again.

“Pragmatic,” he said. “And convincing. I will agree if you do something in return—for me.” _Fenedhis._

“I make a suggestion to benefit _you_ and you want a favour?” He waited until she caved because of her own cursed curiosity. “Fine, I suppose I already owe you. You’ve my word,” she said with caution. He didn’t continue and she immediately began to regret her decision. “Well?” He looked at her innocently, reaching up to inspect one of the rondels.

“Oh, I will call upon my favour in time.” _Making a deal with a demon would have been safer._ Someone cleared their throat at the door—they turned in unison and saw Elgalas eyeing them both. Solas remained where he was, hand nearly touching hers on the mannequin. She was certain Elgalas did not fail to notice.

“Apologies Messeres, am I interrupting anything?” she asked. 

“We are simply admiring your work,” Solas replied.

“Do you see anything you like, Ser?” Elgalas asked, clasping her hands before her. Maordrid noted a slight tremor right before she did it. She knew Solas had always made her nervous. And here they both were dancing around each other like fools, with Solas kissing her fingers as though she hadn’t just tried to flick his ears. _Technically, I’m not_ this _Solas’ agent._ It was odd…and a little sickening to think of it in that sense. Solas cleared his throat and nudged her with his elbow.

“I believe _she_ had an idea,” he said in a diplomatic tone. Elgalas’ managed to keep a smooth face, though her surprise was evident with the way she quickly dipped her head in a nod. To be fair, she likely would have had the same reaction in Elgalas’ position. It was a very strange situation to be in.

“This way, please,” Elgalas said. They followed the stiff elf back through the main chamber and into yet another large room at the very back. There were workbenches, chests, and multiple intricate cabinets that Maori knew held all the tools needed to create elvhen attire. The magical forge was located in another part of the vault. 

Elgalas directed Solas to stand before an ancient relic of a mirror that functioned similar to an Eluvian with a very complex spell that allowed one to manipulate one’s reflection. 

“An Ajuvian?” Solas said as he stood before it and Elgalas activated it by drawing a glyph on its surface.

“Yes. My assistant and I recovered it in the Weyrs years ago. It is quite priceless and makes all of our work here possible. I believe it hails from the time of Arlathan. Perhaps from June, the mythological Dalish lord of crafts.” Elgalas looked at her. “My Lady?” Maordrid joined her by the mirror. She regarded Solas in the reflection.

“Robe and coat off,” she ordered him, wondering just how far she could push him. His grey-blue eyes shined with amusement, but he undid his belt and shrugged out of his coat, wordlessly handing it to Elgalas who hung it on a rack nearby. Though he stood in his undershirt and leg wraps, it astounded her that he could still manage an effortless regality. One of many reasons why, she was sure, that the Evanuris had accepted him as one of their own. She snapped out of her thoughts when Elgalas appeared on the other side of the frame, stern faced.

“You need only place your hand against the surface and…if you have ever dreamed in the Fade, imagine the—oh, nevermind then.” _Come now, Elgalas,_ she thought unamused. The armour she had seen in the other room wavered into existence on his reflection like a mirage. Burnished gold greaves of rare Veil quartz with woven leather cuisses covered his legs, disappearing behind a soft, earth-toned tabard. The chest she envisioned was the least elaborate, since it would be obscured, but she made sure that it was both light and protective for when they could use it in the field after the ball. A mantle of Fade-touched veridium appeared next, but she made adjustments to it, layering it and sharpening it in spots to compliment his shoulders and neck. Silverite-backed gauntlets with subtle filigree to clad his hands up to his elbows. She added a finishing touch with the dark grey cloak he had been admiring in the last room. The forest-toned theme would at least adhere to his ‘elven apostate’ colours.

“Oh, one more thing—” She touched her finger to the reflection’s shoulder and willed a grey wolf’s pelt into being. Her grin was as sharp as a blade when she met his gaze again. His face was composed as he turned from side to side, inspecting it.

“It is not exactly _subtle_ ,” he finally said.

“Solas, we are going to an Orlesian ball—this is positively dull in comparison to what we will be seeing. Were you not the one who suggested a dress, after all?” she deadpanned, then looked at Elgalas. “What did the Inquisitor decide on, Master Smith?” The white-haired elf smirked and drew another glyph, dispelling Solas’ reflection temporarily to bring up an image of Yin standing before the mirror with a huge grin. Maori smiled smugly.

“I would say that you should not fear upstaging the Inquisitor,” Elgalas mused, returning the reflection back to Solas. Maori looked at him expectantly.

“Remember my favour,” he said darkly, then nodded to Elgalas who walked up to the mirror with some kind of curved piece of metal that she held to the Ajuvian. The imagine warped at the contact point and seemed to get syphoned into it. 

“The Inquisitor suggested a second set to wear for out in the field? At least until _after_ your…soiree,” Elgalas said. Solas nodded and Maori backed away from the mirror as he took over designing his other armour. She found it amusing that in the second, there was significantly more metal than cloth. He chose mail shoulders made of volcanic aurum and a chestpiece of Fade-touched dragonling scales intermeshed with stormheart, since apparently Elgalas had dragon parts in supply. The gauntlets and bracers he chose were backed with pyrophite. Overall, it was less ‘pretty’ and probably less effective than the materials in her design, but it would do for now. _I hope the Inquisitor has a large coffer somewhere that I didn’t notice._ Maybe Elgalas would give them a discount.

“Your turn, Lady Maordrid,” Elgalas said after Solas was satisfied, setting the metal down on one of the workbenches. Maordrid carefully undid her belts, fur-lined cloak, and tunic and stood before it wearing about the same as Solas had. “Are you envisioning for her as well, Messere?” Maordrid went to protest but Solas’ face lit up. It was his turn to look smug, taking his place beside the mirror.

“No bright colours,” she said before he could do anything. “That is all I ask.” 

“Close your eyes,” he ordered, features set in focus. Maordrid gaped but obeyed. She heard Elgalas and Solas talking lowly to one another, but she couldn’t seem to make out anything they were saying. She realised that he had cast a muffling spell.

“Rude,” she called out, then clapped a hand to the apex of her ear when he responded with a flick of magic. The gall! She stood there for at least fifteen minutes longer than she had made him. When she was about out of patience and began to open her eyes to protest again, his voice called out in clarity. The mirror was dormant. She had missed it by a second. She threw a hand up. “I had a perfectly good idea of what I wanted! How is that fair?” 

“As I did for myself. It is an entirely fair deal,” he retorted as Elgalas gathered her Ajuvian slates. She realised that he must have also taken the liberty to design her second set as well and now she was a little miffed.

“I am holding you accountable if I am wounded in our next fight,” she said.

“Even if I held the secret to the most effective armour in existence, you would still find a flaw,” he bit back with a small smirk.

“Your compliments are never without trenchancy. Or was that an insult with begrudging admiration?” she said with an exaggerated sigh, shrugging into her cloak. She peered up at him with a raised eyebrow as he joined her at her side, hands clasped behind his back. He leaned in, angling his head to both watch Elgalas and whisper into her ear, “Compliments borne by the vexing bewitchment you have cast upon me.” She snapped her head to look at him, but he was already gliding back toward the door, leaving her alone with the oblivious Elgalas. 

“ _Vexing?_ ” she repeated under her breath. That didn’t sound like a compliment at all, but somehow it felt like one.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think Messere Solas captured your essence quite well,” Elgalas said with a bow that didn’t hide her smirk. Maordrid threw her layers on and padded out of the room grumpily, eyes boring into the back of Solas’ head with open wonder. Dhrui waited excitedly for her, eyes widening when Solas passed her by. 

“Yin is paying in the front,” Dhrui told them. Solas nodded and walked on ahead, but Maordrid beelined it for the other room, eyes seeking out the bandolier she had left behind. Dhrui joined her, spinning a circle in the middle of the room. 

“I didn’t see this one! Is this elvhen armour?” she asked, picking up the same circlet that Solas had put on her head earlier. 

“Yes. Well, with a few adjustments,” a voice said from behind. Maordrid turned to see Elgalas had joined them. The elf glanced over her shoulder to ensure they were alone before she ventured farther into the room. “Tahiel is going to work himself to the bone when he hears who he’s building that armour for.” Dhrui chortled behind them.

“I can hear you, you know,” she said. “Who is Tahiel? You know each other?” Elgalas opened her mouth likely to fabricate a story, but Maordrid held up a hand.

“This is Elgalas. She’s an agent,” Maori said, casting a muffling spell against the door. Elgalas shot her a sharp look. “And this is Dhrui, my apprentice.” 

“You…took on an apprentice? I thought the day would never come,” the woman intoned, eyes scanning Dhrui as though she meant to pick apart every layer of the Dalish elf to see what made her special. “There are few alive better than this one, child.” 

“That is untrue, but I am flattered you think so,” Maordrid said, picking up a ring inscribed with glyphs that she idly examined. Her eyes fell upon a golden brooch in the pile of things. It had a stylised image of Veilfire with a fingerprint-like background that reminded her of a foci. She added that to her gifts for Solas.

“When did you lose a finger?” Elgalas asked suddenly, grabbing her right hand. “Maybe I should ask _how_. You have never maimed yourself in all these years.”

“That’s _visible,_ mind you,” Maordrid said as her eye caught onto a ring in shape of a snake eating its own tail. “Could you get this made into a cloak pin?” Elgalas sighed with exasperation and picked up another ring, this one a pure red band with tiny glyphs on the inside. She shoved it onto Maordrid’s finger and twisted. A red-hot pain shot into her hand, causing her to cry out, but then suddenly the band glowed dully and a translucent red appendage flickered into existence. She flexed her hand and watched as the red finger responded. Her whole hand throbbed and so did a thousand-thousand nerve endings, but…she could _feel_.

“Tahiel has been experimenting since you mentioned prosthetics. He has the smaller appendages near perfected—arms and legs are much harder with the Veil dampening everything. At least with this method, but he’s branching out,” Elgalas said, releasing her pulsing hand. 

“How goes your hunt?” Maordrid asked. Elgalas reached into a pocket in her apron and removed a small metal scroll only the size of her middle finger that she handed over. 

“A servant at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral witnessed a human woman using an Eluvian there. He couldn’t get close enough to make out the phrase, but this is a list of possible words it could have been. She also used magic to activate it a handful of times, so there are a few attempts to describe the spell inside as well,” she said. Maordrid kept her face smooth despite the surge of relief that filled her to the brim as she tucked it safely into a pouch at her belt. “If possible, we should speak at the villa. Until then, be careful. We are getting ahead at last.” Elgalas turned to face Dhrui. “Take care of her, Dhrui Lavellan. She is as stubborn as it gets, but I hear anyone who earns her friendship is like a small boon from gods that should have existed.” Dhrui bowed low, hands together. Elgalas dispelled the muffling ward and went to leave. “Keep the gifts, _Maordrid,_ ” Elgalas called, and then she was gone.

Maori sighed and wrapped the bandolier and brooch in her cloak to hide it from Solas as they returned to the surface shop. Elgalas was there exchanging words with Yin who was nodding with an enthusiastic look on his face. Maordrid handed her gifts surreptitiously to Elgalas’ assistant with a whispered word to have them wrapped and walked over to the group.

“Ah, good warrior!” Elgalas said to her, “I was just telling the Inquisitor that I should have all your orders ready by next week.”

“So quickly?” Maordrid asked, feigning surprise. She knew Tahiel was likely bored if he had been responsible for making any number of the strange little creations in the ‘ancient’ room. He would hammer out all of their requisitions in a night and a day if he was particularly driven. 

“It is deeply honouring to be given the opportunity to outfit members of the Inquisition,” Elgalas said, sounding like she meant it for once. “Oh, and one more thing, Inquisitor? You hail from Antiva—are you an admirer of the arts?”

“Come now, _lethallin!_ If you ever meet an Antivan that doesn’t you will know they are impostors,” he said with a theatrical bow. 

“Very good, my Lord. Then perhaps I may interest you with knowledge of a special performance tomorrow evening? A minstrel from the Brecilian forest is gracing the Leaf and Lyre. She is very impressive and the venue is one of the few in the city that isn’t…terribly racist. There are always problematic humans but for the most part the peace is kept there,” Elgalas said. “They serve delicious mead and cinnamon breads as well.” 

“That sounds perfect,” Yin said, gauging everyone’s reactions with a hopeful expression. Piqued. Even Solas looked mildly so. 

“I still have some gift searching to do before then, but I’m not missing that for anything,” Dhrui said. 

“Does the minstrel sing epics or romances?” Yin asked.

Elgalas chuckled, an unnatural sound to her ears. “I believe she has a penchant for the romantic stories.” 

_“Damn,_ the others are going to love that,” Yin said. “Will we see you there, Lady Elgalas?” The woman sighed wistfully and Maordrid was left wondering if the woman was still pretending.

“Alas, no, Inquisitor, I have many orders to fill,” she said with a wink, “But tell the bartender that his spirit of hope is lacking and he will put you in good seats for Eivuna’s performance. It should all take place by the tenth bell of the evening.” Dorian snorted.

“Are you sure saying that to a bartender won’t get any of us a fist in the eye and some broken teeth?” That time, Elgalas gave a genuine laugh, her black eyes picking him apart in much the same manner she had to Dhrui.

“If it does, return to me and I will build you a new face, pretty man.” She bowed once more and left them. 

“Don’t worry, love, I’ll protect your face,” Yin said, patting Dorian’s cheek and earning a look of repulsion. Maordrid was last to join them outside when the human finally returned to her with Solas’ gifts in slim wooden box. “Did you see that mirror they had, Dhrui? Our Keeper would stage a heist if she knew something like that existed here.” 

“She wouldn’t even know what to do with it,” Dhrui said. Yin shrugged.

“True, but it’s a little irritating that a non-Dalish is in possession of such a relic,” he said. Maori saw Dhrui bristle.

“Y’know, Solas and Maori are _right here_ too. They’ve equal claim to the past,” she said. Yin hunched his shoulders but kept his gaze forward as they started walking again. “Don’t you agree, brother?” Yin didn’t answer. Maori wasn’t terribly surprised. The Dalish were rather close minded about who they shared their piecemeal knowledge with. She tried to understand, but it was difficult to get on a level with a people that constantly contradicted themselves. Yin’s own sudden standoffishness was only a reminder that he was not ready for any sort of truth. Which was…frustrating. She loved Yin and saw the potential he had for greatness—she had since meeting him in Haven. And so far, he’d proven a worthy leader. But she needed him to help prove Solas wrong.

“Frederic next, yes?” Dorian asked in the tense silence that followed. Yin nodded curtly, still stewing. “Good. I wouldn’t mind getting lost in a library by now.” 

The walk to the Professor’s was made largely in silence with little conversation. When they were standing on his doorstep, Yin knocked but the windows were dark and there was no answer. 

“Maybe he is at the University?” Maori suggested. Yin knocked again, then pressed an ear to the door.

“I think I heard a groan,” he said, and then the handle flicked, squeaked, then finally twisted and the door cracked open to reveal the bedraggled countenance of Frederic. He frantically ran a hand through his messy hair before opening it the rest of the way and then bowing at Yin.

“Maker’s breath, you are all a sight for sore eyes,” he said, waving to the others. 

“Are you ill?” Maori asked. Frederic’s face warmed to see her.

“No, simply…stressed, although I _do_ feel like I am coming down with something. But come in, I will set the kettle and we will speak! I have much to share,” he said, standing to the side to usher them in. Their group gathered within the study only to find it more cluttered than usual. The tea set from the last time they’d been there was still perched upon the precarious stack of books and papers. Frederic muttered in Orlesian before swiping it away and rushing through the maze of stuff and into his tiny kitchen.

“This mess isn’t the sign of a healthy man,” Dorian said, lip curling in distaste at a rotting cheese pastry left forgotten on the window sill. 

“Indeed,” Solas remarked, lifting a paper from beside the Tevinter tome Frederic had been allowed to borrow. At that moment, the Professor returned with the tray bearing tea and hastily stacked biscuits. His eyes fell to Solas who slowly lowered the notes.

“You underplayed the stress bit,” Maori said, crossing her arms. “You are the definition of a mess.” Frederic chuckled nervously.

“I may have gotten a little carried away with that tome,” he said, bending to pour the brew into cups. 

“It seems as though you’ve been tracking in chunks of the University,” Yin observed. There _was_ a trail of books leading in from the door as though they’d been dropped and forgotten. Maori noticed that the cylinders he’d been carrying the first day were laying in a haphazard stack by the chaise. A series of large diagrams of dragon parts were strewn about on top of the furniture.

“I…I have run into controversy at the University and any peaceful study that I could be conducting there has been compromised, so I have thus taken to doing it here,” Frederic said, carefully moving the diagrams away. Maori took that seat and Solas sat beside her, knees touching. He leaned over and snagged a biscuit off the plate before lifting up yet another stray piece of paper that had a charcoal relief of a draconic eye on it. She found a paper with half-translated mentions of the Blight. The others continued to take perches on the various other surfaces Frederic cleared for them. “The worst part about being a _good_ scholar is that sometimes it draws the attention of people with power.” 

“Someone has taken notice of your studies?” Solas asked. Frederic nodded.

“I made the mistake of asking one of the few people at the University that understand a little ancient Tevene. She has relatives in Minrathous and…well, she decided that gave her claim to the tome _you_ discovered,” Frederic said a little vehemently. “I wasn’t about to allow her to take over its translation or the project in its entirety so I smuggled it away back here.”

“Then how have you been translating it?” Dorian asked, lifting the tome itself and studying it. Frederic twisted his hands together, eyeing the Tevinter as though expecting him to steal out of the villa with it. He looked a little feral.

“I said I was a good scholar. I have my ways,” he said, uncharacteristically evasive. Maordrid raised a curious brow at him.

“ _Shady!_ ” Dhrui said in a sing-song tone that earned a minute twitch from Frederic.

“My Gods, does the upstanding Professor have ties to the underworld?” Yin gasped. “Don’t take that the wrong way, Prof, that’s honestly impressive. I would never have guessed.” Frederic thumbed a brow, peering shyly at the Inquisitor.

“It would be much faster going if I didn’t have to cross reference ten different scrolls simply to translate _one_ word at a time. All my ties, reputable or not, play the Game. Someone asked for my bloody _firstborn_ in exchange for a rare title from the mage circle in Minrathous! I’m not even married!” He took a trembling sip from the porcelain cup in his hand, staring into the void.

“I could ask my Spymaster or Ambassador to look around for options,” Yin suggested. Frederic juggled his teacup, nearly dropping it at his words.

“How could I have forgotten—I am such a fool,” he muttered with a deep inhale. Maori grinned fondly, setting her own tea down in her lap. It looked a little questionable. “I fear that there may be little time remaining for me to retain possession of the tome. If Caramia’s family in Tevinter receive word, they will pose a formal claim and I will have no choice but to hand it over. You may be able to postpone that trade if you declare it an asset of the Inquisition’s…”

“But it _is_ ,” Yin said. “ _We_ found it. I’ll walk into the University my self and declare it for us if I have to. Speaking of which, any luck with that?” Frederic made a noise, this one happier.

“ _Bien sûr!_ My apologies for not bringing that up sooner! _Oui,_ I have secured you admittance to the archives and the library.” There was a low-key bubbling of excitement as everyone rejoiced over the news. Dorian hung at the edge of his seat, eyes fixating on hers. _He’s sitting on something,_ she realised. “It comes with strict conditions, however,” Frederic continued, “Your allotted hours to visit will be from the pre-dawn to the second midday bell.”

“Not bad, really. Few will be prowling the archives at that hour. One would hope,” Dorian said and Frederic nodded his agreement. 

“If you are willing to forgo sleep, indeed,” he said. “Also, if you do not accompany the Inquisitor or myself, make sure to wear your pins.” The Professor turned to Solas. “One of my Elven-study colleagues wishes to speak with you after all. The coin was very valuable to him.” Solas inclined his head but said nothing. 

“We will set aside some time to visit then,” Yin said. “Although not today or tomorrow, I think.” He paused, considering the Professor. “Do you know a bard by the name of Eivuna, Prof?” The man spun to look at him with wide eyes.

“Do I? _Of course_ I do! Is she performing soon?” he asked, glowing with excitement. Yin laughed and nodded.

“Would you want to accompany us tomorrow for a night of celebration? Our other friends just arrived as well. It will be an evening of joviality and lots of drinking.” Frederic nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you know much about her?” he asked them all. When they shook their heads, he smiled, “Eivuna has many a romantic song, but several are based in historical truth. When she was only beginning, I recall her coming to the University all the way from Starkhaven in search of books to aid her compositions. I sneaked her in once or twice. Lovely lass with a heart of gold.” Maori was growing increasingly curious about this woman. She wasn’t one for romantic stories exactly, but if Elgalas had given praise, then there must have been something special to this Eivuna girl. And, if she played the lute, who was she to deny music and a good drink? _Oh, just a person who shouldn’t get drunk around people I like._

“You should get some rest if you are to accompany us, Frederic,” she mused, observing how he leaned—or was sagging—against the study doorway. “It would not do for you to fall asleep partway through her performance.” He smiled at her again and dipped his head in a nod.

“Always telling it how it is,” he said, letting his fondness slip through with his exhaustion. Dhrui was the one to clear her throat and stand up, placing her teacup back on the tray. Maori stared into her own a little awkwardly. Slender fingers slipped beneath her saucer, relieving the cup from her possession. Solas paid her a small smile and she realised the others were preparing to leave. She took his hand when offered, allowing him to lift her to her feet. His thumb swept over her knuckles before he released her, the small action alone was nearly enough to pull her heart through her fingers. She glared at him instead, glad that everyone else was occupied with shuffling past the mess. 

“Until tomorrow, Professor!” Yin called, letting everyone pass out of Frederic’s villa before him.

“ _Bonsoir._ ”

By that time, it really was getting later in the day. Partway back to the inn, Dhrui excused herself from the group. Yin almost threw a fit, but Dorian held him back.

“Where do you think she’s going, Yin?” he hissed. The Inquisitor yanked at the scarf at his neck irritably staring after his sister as she vanished around a corner.

“I don’t like to think about it,” he muttered, turning on the ball of his foot. He gave Maori a thoughtful look. “Dearest, lovely mentor, would you…?”

“Tail your sister?” she laughed as Yin’s cheeks reddened. “I think not. I am off to the practise yard. Join me, if you are _frustrated._ ” She winked and continued on, leaving the three men behind. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dhrui braced her legs between the two beams and rapped her knuckles against the shuttered window. She heard two voices inside whispering and then one of the shutters swung open, nearly smacking her in the face. Sera’s rosy countenance peeked out, then considered the thirty-foot drop beneath Dhrui.

“You’re a limber one,” she smirked, helping her inside the attic room. 

“Dhrui!” Blackwall exclaimed as the girls tumbled onto the bed pushed against the wall. “Does your brother know you’re here?” Dhrui snorted.

“Yes, and he’s chosen to transform into the overprotective older sibling all of a sudden,” she pouted, jumping from Sera’s bed to land on his. She threw her arms around his neck in a hug. He smelled like woodsmoke and whatever tasty meal the duo’s inn had cooked for them. 

“Ugh, you two love rats. I’m gonna go see if Varric wants to have a shoot out,” Sera said, flinging the window back open and practically diving through with her bow and quiver. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Blackwall said from behind her. Dhrui twisted to face him again, brows drawing down.

“Why do you keep pushing me away?” she said, sitting back against a bedpost. 

“It’s just…not a good idea, my Lady. You’re the Inquisitor’s sister—a real Lady now,” he began, rubbing his rough hands together, “I’m a Warden—there’s no…there’s no future with me. And I’ve nothing to offer you. No stability, no fancy title…” She couldn’t believe her ears. 

“What about _now?_ The now. Today. Tomorrow. What you can give and are willing to give?” she asked. Blackwall met her eyes for a fraction of a second before they went to the humble hearth across from them. “You came all this way for me only to tell me you don’t…want me?” He stood abruptly then knelt before her on the floor, taking her hands in his.

“I _do_ , Maker, I really do,” he breathed. “But we shouldn’t, Dhrui. Please, end this…because I can’t. And stop crawling through windows because you’re gonna break your neck and Sera’s going to win that bet.” She laughed and leaned her forehead against his.

“You’re stupid, but I like you for some reason,” she said, kissing his nose. Blackwall sighed, peering up at her. “Fine, you’re having a broody day. I just wanted to tell you about the minstrel everyone’s going to see tomorrow night. Who knows, maybe I’ll fall in love with Eivuna and run away with her instead of you. She has legendary songs, so I've heard. _You_ won’t sing for me.” That got a laugh from him.

“I’ve heard of her. You’d live a more fulfilling life with a bard than with me,” Blackwall said. She rolled her eyes and leaned away. “Not my cup of ale, but I’ll go since everyone else is.” She punched him in the shoulder.

“That’s the spirit. Are you hungry? I found a place that sells ridiculous mutton pies that I know you’ll like,” she said. Blackwall smiled at her sadly. She hated it. Sometimes—not lately—she’d seen Solas wear a similar expression. Knowing who and what he was, it made sense. Something dawned on her and Blackwall seemed to sense her alarm as a tension formed along his arms. “You’re not…hearing the Calling, are you?” she asked with fear. He let out a breath she didn’t realise he was holding and shook his head once.

“No, but I worry about that. Not living long enough to see Corypheus ended,” he said, but there was something odd in his voice. He wasn’t telling her something and it was picking at her like a carrion feeder. She shook herself.

“I don’t want to think about that right now. Let’s get out of here, please?” she begged. He gave her a pleading look but she wasn’t having any of it. Dhrui pulled him up by his thick hand and hauled him out of the door, determined. 

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maori thumbed through the nice clothes Solas had gotten her. The outfit she’d chosen was there, but so were some new hand and wrist wraps that she could use immediately. Her eyes fell next upon a sleeveless olive tunic. Running her fingers over it made her aware of a minor healing enchantment in its threads. 

“Thoughtful and trenchant indeed,” she mused aloud, exchanging that shirt for the one she currently wore. The lustrous cotton-silk combination fit suspiciously well. He either knew her measurements better than she personally did, or he’d gotten them from Eloise. Maori slipped into the pair of halla leather leggings, then fastened her dagger’s harness into place over her shirt, tied the laces at the neck of her tunic. She regarded her staff laying across her pack with mild distaste, contemplating. She needed to get back into practise if she was going on that cursed trip to Dirthamen’s temple. At least Solas would be with her. She was only a little worried about Cole and his innocent tendency to get into everyone’s heads. If he—or anyone—heard anything that had been in hers lately about Solas…

She clenched her jaw and slipped out of the room. _Best not to dwell on it._

On her way through the alley leading to the training yard, she heard voices and saw that she wasn’t the only one who’d had the same thought that evening. Cole, Iron Bull, Varric, Sera, _and_ Cassandra were all present. The two rogues were shooting at miscellaneous targets balanced on the hay bales—while Cole sat in the branches of the tree beside them—and then there was Cassandra moving through her own forms, and Bull was…watching the warrior with interest. But as soon as she emerged, his gaze was drawn to her. She had half a mind to turn and escape, but then Sera whistled, also having seen her.

“Mao!” she called, “Varric says you know how to make zappy crossbow bolts! What about arrows?”

“Giving away all my secrets, dwarf?” Maori accused, walking across the yard.

“It’s not a secret if you tell someone,” Varric said, picking beneath a fingernail with his boot knife.

“What happened to a day’s rest?” she asked, surveying the others. 

“All we needed was a good night’s sleep. It’s not like we were out running through the Fade or a swamp like some people,” Varric said as he watched Cassandra practically split one of the dummies in half.

“Are you sure you were not ordered out of bed?” she mused and Varric’s small grin was enough answer. She sensed a shadow fall over her suddenly and turning she found Iron Bull standing with one of the larger quarterstaves thrown over a shoulder. 

“I need a sparring partner,” he said, “Ordinarily I’d ask the Boss or beat up on Krem, but neither of them are here.” She arched a brow and clasped her wrist behind her back, meeting his gaze. However, out of her peripherals she spotted a familiar figure and her heart sped up. She swallowed and fixed her gaze back on the qunari.

“I see a perfectly fit warrior attempting to destroy the dummy to your right,” she said. Bull’s smile seemed barbed. He didn’t even look at Cassandra.

“Yeah, but we’ve been sparring since Sahrnia,” he said, “Unless your purpose is just to sit here with Varric and look cute.” Varric grunted a laugh.

“Always knew I was cute,” he said. Sera fired a shot at a rotten apple balanced atop a bottle, hitting it dead on. She could see Solas approach a training dummy with his own staff. He was the picture of indifference—save for the slight tilting of his head as he eavesdropped.

“Just say it, you wanna pin her beneath you!” Sera said, twirling and nailing another overripe fruit that Varric tossed in the air for her. “ _Fwoof!_ Why else would he ask someone a quarter of his size?” 

“Think you did say something about pinning and sparring rings,” Bull said. Just like that day in the Approach, she took special notice of the way Solas’ movements suddenly became calculated, almost jerky. 

“Careful, Tiny, the storm in that Teacup is going to spill over,” Varric said and she was annoyed that he had caught onto Bull’s ridiculous nickname.

“C’mon, aren’t you good with a spear?” Bull asked, lumbering back across the yard to grab a stave. Maori crossed her arms.

“I do not need a spear to take you down,” she said a little haughtily. 

“Ah, shite, it’s happening isn’t it?” Sera said to Varric. “Three ales on horns!” Varric hummed expressively.

“I’m not betting until I know what she’s fighting with,” he said. Maori gave him a quick glance, thinking.

“A rope,” she decided. Bull guffawed, handing the staff out but she declined it.

“A…rope,” he repeated, looking dubious. “Kinky.” Sera chortled behind her.

“I get it! Ha, kinky…’cause, y’know, ropes can be…” She continued giggling even after Bull miraculously procured a coil of rope from a shed at the far end of the yard.

“Chuckles, Seeker! You want in on the bet?” Varric called. Cassandra stopped her wailing on the poor dummy and wiped her brow, narrowing her eyes first at the rogue and then considering her.

“Must everything be a competition or a bet with you?” Cassandra asked. 

“It’s that or we take over the nearest tavern. Gotta keep it lively with all the grim shit around us,” Bull said, stretching with the staff over his arms.

“I think I will pass, but not because I doubt either of your abilities,” Cassandra said looking at her when she said it.

“It will be anticlimactic and quick anyway, Seeker,” Maori said, inwardly admonishing herself. She couldn’t believe she was allowing herself to be goaded like this.

“Would your time not be better suited to practising ranged attacks for our upcoming assignment, Maordrid?” Solas called over. He was right, of course, and she would much rather be going over strategies with him than allowing the Iron Bull to get under her skin. But backing out now would just look bad. Judging by the qunari’s face, he was well aware and waited patiently for her answer.

“She’s right about one thing, Solas,” Bull said, raising his voice. The Fadewalker turned an icy gaze to him. “I’ll make this quick. Couple of good thrusts and she’ll be all loosened up for working that staff later.” Solas’ knuckles went white on his staff, but he said nothing more and moved from the space where they were about to fight. Maori raised her head with a composed expression. They could speculate and joke all they wanted, but she would give them nothing to go off of where it involved her and Solas. “Just a warning, Teacup, I don’t pull punches,” he said as she caught the coil of rope. As Bull turned to venture farther onto the field, she stooped down and gathered some soil in her hand as if to dust her palms, but never let it drop.

“I would not ask you to,” she said, unravelling the rope. “Since that is not how fights generally go.”

“Woman after my own heart.” Bull held the staff in both hands and bent his knees. Maori gave the rope some slack and placed her left foot behind her right. All it took to centre herself was a puff of breath that sent her magic weaving through her muscles, preparing them for what was going to undoubtedly be a fight of speed and precision…and no short amount of deception.

On Bull’s first step toward her, Maori whirled the rope and cast it out at him in what appeared to be a fatal mistake. _Catch it._ His big, grey fist closed around it like a hungry fish on a bait hook. She grinned wickedly as he struck out with the quarterstaff, straight at her. She tossed her handful of dirt in his eye. His distraction was his downfall. _Tail end of rope loops around mid-staff._ Her arms moved like writhing snakes, tying a quick sliding knot and stepping in toward Bull. With a magically reinforced kick of her leg at his outer knee, she had him buckling to a kneeling position. With the looped rope in her left holding the staff, Maori dashed in and wrapped it around a horn, fed the opposite end through the loop, then yanked. The staff went flying upward at his face aided by the makeshift pulley, smacking him sound in the nose. The entire thing had taken perhaps three seconds in all and he’d been too shellshocked to react.

“Nose shots are cheap!” he shouted, trying to free himself, but she danced out of the way, still clinging to the loose end, tightening it even farther. _Behind and finish off with another kick._ Once there, she realised she needed to rectify that mistake— _pull rope like rigging._ Bull resisted for a moment, still clinging to his balance before she aided her attempts to fell him with a forceful smack of magic at his head. The great grey man fell to his back like a massive, curse-spewing sylvan. Maori released the rope in favour of summoning her spear, holding it point down at his single eye.

“Do you yield?” she asked. 

“Yeah. Nasty trick with the dirt, but well played,” he said with a good-natured grin.

“Hot damn, Teacup!” Varric cheered from the sidelines.

“Usually _I’m_ the one doing the tying up,” Bull said as she helped free the rope from his horn.

“What the frig did I just watch?” Sera asked, rubbing an eye and staring at her as though she were possessed. Varric was still wearing a shit-eating grin. “Mages aren’t s’posed to move like that!”

“More than a mage, she sings across the Veil, makes magic into music, a ship sailing on swelling seas,” Cole said, sounding almost defencive. Sera was openly disgusted now, though she wasn’t sure with whom. “She becomes like water.” Maori avoided looking at Solas, though she could see his arms were crossed. Cassandra was definitely gaping.

“Whatever, Creepy, I just owe Varric now,” the rogue muttered. Once Bull was back on his feet, she faced him.

“Rematch?” he said with hope. “You can’t leave it like this.”

“I could and I really should,” she said, cocking her hip and swinging the rope lazily. “But will a second loss only fan the flame?” Bull guffawed.

“Damn, you’re as bad as the Vint,” he said. “No promises, though. Oh, and one more thing—use your magic. I want a real challenge.” She heard Solas say something in elven along the lines of _the earth will cover the healer’s mistakes,_ and she caught a laugh in her throat, casting him a glance. There were of course layers to the old proverb, but she knew it was directed at Bull. 

“Iron Bull _panal manen,_ Solas,” she said, catching his attention. 

“That sounded like an insult,” Bull said. He needed only look at Solas’ lightly smirking face to get his confirmation. Maori focused her mind back to the looming match. He’d given her full leave to use magic, but she found she didn’t really want to. Taking him down without it was just so much more satisfying since they all seemed to think mages shouldn’t be able to fight like she did. And she’d been with them now for how long? 

Bull charged her, surprisingly quick for his size. She cloaked and Fade stepped through him, leaving behind a chill he’d likely feel for the rest of the day, if his frustrated growl was any testament to that. Again, she whipped the rope around one of his horns. He yanked his head forward, this time pulling her off balance. As she was stumbling forward, he managed to spin with the rope still attached and buried the staff in her gut. Diaphragm stressed, the air rushed out and spots danced in her eyes. The wood was replaced by his fist that sent her backward this time. A third strike from the butt-end caught her across the forehead. By that time, she gathered her wits enough to actually move out of hitting distance and wiped her forehead when something wet dropped onto her lips. He’d drawn blood. It wasn’t the only red she saw.

“Shit, got you good,” he said, sounding sorry and almost like he was going to halt the fight. 

“Keep going,” she wheezed, ignoring the sharp pain in the gash and throb in her gut. 

“That’s the spirit,” he said in a low voice. She may have been without a weapon, but she could compensate. She kept retreating backwards, giving herself time to recuperate from the other solid blows he’d dealt her. Though he looked mostly smug, she wasn’t fooled. The rope still hanging from his horn proved he was too wary of her to waste any time trying to remove it. He tried to mask his apprehension by making the first move again—she saw the blow coming in his biceps and latissimi, the way they tensed before he raised the staff. She flipped backward before the vertical strike even landed, then jumped forward onto the weapon and ran along its length, his arm, then onto his shoulders. He started to straighten, threatening her balance but she had fought true monsters bigger than him with far more unpredictable movement. Unfortunately for him, Iron Bull was more hack and slash in battle than he was finesse and to her, those foes were the easiest to fell. It was strange that his mind could be so clever but his body was not.

The only magic she used was to guide the rope back into her hands. Another flip put her on his other shoulder and the rope around the anterior of his neck. Then, pushing off with a foot braced against his horn, she jumped and yanked back yet again. He made a horrible _hrk-_ ing noise as the rope went taut around his throat, but he resisted falling this time. 

“That all you got?” he asked in a strangled voice, trying to claw at the rope while turning around.

“I do not think you want me to use magic. This fight would be over in a heartbeat,” she panted, digging her feet into the ground. 

“You think you’re so _good_ ,” he snarled.

“If I wasn’t, I would not be teaching our Inquisitor,” she said, then skimmed around Bull and hit him with an augmented Mind Blast while icing the ground in front of him. Bull stumbled, slipped, then fell again with another angry curse. She froze his arms where they’d shot out to catch himself on the ground and paced around him, this time holding her spirit sword beneath his chin.

“All right, all right point taken. Literally. Can barely get a hit in,” he grumbled. She smiled and released him from the ice and untangled the rope from him. When he was on his feet, he leaned in so that they were almost nose to nose and grinned. She realised he was sticking his hand out. When she grasped it, he squeezed. “Don’t think storm in a teacup ever described anyone more accurately,” he said. Maori gave him a thin smile and worked her way over to the sidelines where the others were waiting with various levels of amusement.

“You looked like a circus flea having a field day, Teacup!” Varric chortled, leaning against Bianca. “Please tell me at some point in your life you were part of an acrobatic circus troupe?” She laughed.

“Trust me, I will be feeling those flips tomorrow. It’s been a while since I did so many and so quickly,” she said.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re _old_ ,” Sera said. Varric flicked a pebble at her forehead.

“We’re all older than you, kid. I’ll bet even Cole is,” he said, then patted Maori on the shoulder, “She’s just mad that she lost the bet and owes me bottomless ales at Skyhold for a month.” 

“Say, if you two are done playing with your splinter-shooters, you wanna go find one of those and a suckling pig to split?” Bull asked. “Come along, Teacup, if you’re not married to your, uh, _ranged_ practise.” Flattered, she smiled and shrugged.

“I should put a little time into it. If it is not too late by then, I may find you,” she said. “Otherwise, I believe everyone will be attending the Leaf and Lyre tomorrow. The Inquisitor has the better details.” 

“Well, if you’re into _two_ nights of drinking, we’ll be at the Cup and Casque. Food, drink, and game!” Varric said, nudging her as he walked by with Sera. “Cole? You coming?” The spirit-boy shook his head much to the dwarf’s disappointment, but he let him be. As they left, Cassandra, Cole, and Solas remained. The other warrior approached, sheathing her sword.

“It might have been better to lose to him. Winning has never done me any favours,” the Nevarran said with a small smile, lifting her head. “He has been insufferable the journey here. Him _and_ Varric.”

“Good to know it isn’t just me,” Maori said, wiping futilely at her bloody temple again. 

“ _Men_ ,” Cassandra sighed, then raised a brow over at Solas who took the opening to walk over. “Are you going to spar with him next?” A nervous chuckle escaped her, as did a blush that began to creep up from under her collar.

“Verbal sparring is more likely," she said, focusing her attention on rewinding the rope still in her hand. “We are heading slightly east some days from now as a request of the Inquisitor’s. I…actually, I would suggest speaking with him. We need a warrior in the party. I should have asked while Iron Bull was still here.”

“There will be another chance, but I will ask the Inquisitor for the details. Until later, Maordrid,” Cassandra bowed and also took her leave. Solas handed her a kerchief from a pocket before she could wipe her face again. She held it to her cut with silent thanks and went to hang the rope around a post, but Cole appeared, staring at it intensely.

“Rope binds, a thousand threads twined together, thick and tight,” he said in a whisper, then his pale milky eyes found her face. He stepped closer, wringing his hands, “Blood binds but can also protect—you know but you’ve forgotten. I could help you remember and then you could help me!” Maori placed a hand on his cold, scarred ones in concern at the worry in his voice.

“I do not know what you are saying, Cole,” she said. The young man turned his head as Solas approached, also concerned. “What do you need help with?” 

“Binding,” he said, “If you or…or Solas could bind me like they did at Adamant, then they can’t use me!” Maori’s eyes widened, letting go of Cole’s hands.

“No,” Solas immediately cut in. Cole clenched his fists.

“But you _like_ demons!” he said, getting close to Solas now.

“I enjoy the company of spirits, yes, which is part of why I do not abuse them with bindings,” he said resolutely.

“It isn’t abuse if I ask!” Cole insisted.

“Not always true,” Solas said, then gestured between her and himself, “And neither of us practises blood magic. It is out of the question.” Cole made a noise not unlike a desperate animal.

“Maori, you understand—you’ve seen—” It clicked. _The Amulet of the Unbound,_ she remembered in the transcript. _You have to ask the Inquisitor, you know this._ “Walls around what I want, blocking, bleeding, making me a monster—I won’t be me anymore.”

“And if binding you erases your mind? Your consciousness?” Solas said, frustration writ in his brow. Cole stepped away from both of them, tilting his head so that the brim of his hat obscured his face.

“You wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people. I don’t want to hurt innocent people again,” he said morosely. Maori looked to Solas for help. “You know. You do.” This time, she wasn’t sure if Cole was talking about her or Solas who sighed.

“I…may know of a solution, but we should speak to the Inquisitor about it. It would require tapping into the Inquisition’s resources, which is not something I have the power to do,” he said. Cole turned abruptly and began walking away.

“Then I will ask him,” he said. “They will not take me!” And then he was gone. Maori barely relaxed again, dabbing at her temple when more blood trickled along it.

“We cannot help him now,” she said.

“You are right. What I have to suggest is not something we can acquire easily anyway.” Solas removed the kerchief from her hand to inspect the wound. “To the _muscle_. If he had been any closer, he might have dealt far worse damage,” he scolded. 

“Aren’t you tired of healing me? Or me in general,” she added with slight annoyance at herself. 

“Never,” he said, making her heart skip. “Although, if I do you the favour of healing this, may I ask for another from you?” She eyed him critically before voicing her agreement, to which he nodded in satisfaction, raising both hands to seal the wound. “Would you consider taking a ranged role in further fights beyond our upcoming quest?” She grabbed his wrists before he could finish and lowered them, scowling.

“What? Why? You mean for good?” she demanded, crossing her arms. Solas looked down at his left hand where some of her blood had gotten on his fingertips, conflict in his features.

“I…maybe,” he said, pressing a thumb to the droplets of red. “For as long as I have known you, you have been reckless—throwing yourself into harm’s way with near abandon, claiming it is for our protection—” She stepped away from him so that she could stare him full in the face. 

“It _is_ for your bloody protection,” she said and her anger flared at the slight shake of his head.

“Is it?” he said, looking up from his hand, “I am not so certain anymore.” For some reason she felt like he was talking down to her. Furthermore, she was furious that he’d roped her into yet another argument and by the sounds of it, one he’d been preparing for some time. He'd only needed an opening.

Voice dropping in temperature and volume, she said, “Excuse me? Care to elaborate?” The hand with her blood closed into a fist that he then tucked behind his back.

“You hold no love for yourself,” he stated simply. “It shows not only in your actions, but your words as well. Always devaluing yourself or deflecting with self-deprecating humour…except deep down, you believe it.” As she floundered for words through her lividness, Solas continued, “This lie you tell yourself, that it is for the protection of others, is a thin disguise over self destructive behaviour. Whether you deny it or not, it _will_ get you killed. Perhaps you even secretly desire it.” Her calm snapped. She shoved him back, hardly registering the widening of his eyes or surprise in his face. Her own was twisted in black rage.

“ _How dare you,_ ” she exploded, slipping into furious elven. “ _Accuse me of pretending? You?”_ She shoved him again and his back hit the tree behind him. He didn’t even fight back and it pissed her off even more.

“Accuse? Will you prove me wrong?” he asked, infuriatingly composed. That he was _reserved_ about it rubbed her tempestuous rage like sanding parchment against broken skin. But his _words_. He had driven a blade in deep, through her heart, making sure it scraped the back of her ribs. “Do you see yourself as nothing more than a brute swinging a sword? An unhinged apostate flinging magic with no intention other than to destroy or be destroyed?” He took a step forward, away from the tree so that he loomed over her, but she didn’t give him back any ground, letting their chests touch. “And when that battle does not bring about an end, you move onto the next, all the while chanting your mantra of being nothing other than a tool in the hand of a powerful organisation. Do you hope that serving the Inquisition will bring about your death?” 

_“You want to be right about me!”_ she said, unable to control the rising of her voice or the quavering of unbridled pain that came with it. _“You spew these words in hopes that they hold truth because it will make it easier for YOU to look in the mirror and lie, bold faced to your own damn self about the truth you fear. To accept that I—”_ She almost said the words that had been on the tip of her tongue for weeks, but he cut her off like nothing, “—The truth that you want to die some sort of martyr?” he finally shouted back, “ _Delaying the inevitable—_ you agreed, you did not even attempt to deny the creature’s claims that night in the forest! You have not denied _anything_ I have said.” Her fury surged again, like a tide returning in full force, bringing hot tears to her eyes with it. She gripped him by the lapels of his coat and pressed him back against the tree— _roughly—_ then leaned up on her toes, bringing them face to face. Solas seemed to see her face for the first time and something in those immortal eyes burst like a distant star. Fear. But not the kind that made one cower—this was the fear of having made a grave misstep and not being able to take it back. Yet, it was gone in the next blink, replaced by stubborn resolve. “Your anger is your denial,” he dared to continue— _rebelling_ against his own fear, against better judgement. She shook her head, hands trembling with rage. 

“No, this is some desperate, mad scramble of yours to find a reason not to believe that my actions are borne of my heart,” she hissed, pressing her fist into his chest, “It is easier for you to fabricate an excuse for me than it is for you to admit that _you_ are the one in denial. Because if you can convince yourself that _I_ do not care, then it isn’t real and you can go off and do whatever it bloody is you think you must do alone, free of guilt.” She went to back away, but this time, he caught her wrists tightly to stop her, face contorting into a grimace as he opened his mouth to speak, but he broke off when she twisted a wrist out of his grip, gesturing between them, “I am real and so are you, and things... _we_ can change. We are adrift in a _sea_ of change and while it tosses and turns us and makes us think we are drowning, it is an illusion. Your feet touch the bottom or you can learn to swim. _I_ am trying to swim.”

“It is not so simple,” he said.

“Now who is repeating a mantra?” she hissed. “You have already convinced yourself of a side you want to believe is true.”

“I do not want to believe it is,” Solas said and the admission was the twist of his blade in her chest. She couldn’t say or deny anything. Because it wouldn’t be entirely true and she didn’t want to lie to him. _Why now? Why am I losing him now?_

“No, I will tell you what you want,” she soldiered on. “Tell me first, Solas, have you heard the Dalish story about Fen’harel and the courser?” He blinked and his grasp on her slipped, but when she tried to take his moment of being off kilter to free herself, his hand tightened once more. “Does that mean you don’t? Then allow me to enlighten you: A courser caught his scent in dreams and chased him when he fled. The Dread Wolf tried to shake him of his trail by running faster, because who could catch him in the domain he knows best? But coursers do not give up even in dreams. He was undeterred, keeping true to his quarry." The only sign that Solas was even still alive was in the way his eyes followed her. "Eventually, he caught up to Fen’harel and took his tail between his jaws. Try as he did to free himself, the Wolf could not be rid of the hound. So what did he do? He bit off his own tail to escape.” She twisted her wrist outwardly and cut at his own with her opposite hand, breaking his grip at last. “See the parallel? You would sever a piece of yourself to be free—to run away. So go. Cut and push me away.” She began to step back, watching him shake his head—always denying. “Regardless of what you feel or do, the truth lies in that _I_ will not stop. Whatever happens. I condemn your delusions, Solas.” 

His face fell like a wall under siege and his hand reached out. “Maordrid, please—” 

“You told me I changed everything,” she snapped, taking another step back, turning her head and shutting her eyes against the tears. _Why does this hurt so bad?_ she thought. _Because it died before it could ever grow._

“You do.”

“Not enough, though, right? Whatever it is for you?” With every second that he failed to answer, it was like he was slowly pulling the blade from her body. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter either way. Bleeding out would happen sooner or later—he was right in so many ways and she hated him for it. “Then...tell me you don't care.” She met his gaze—held it and watched his shoulders slump as though all the fight had fled from him.

“I can’t do that,” he said in a broken voice. A small, pained noise escaped her.

“You are so cruel,” she whispered, “to tell me that I do not care and not pay me the same respect. I don’t understand your game, Solas.” She took another few steps back and somehow she felt like it was creating a permanent chasm between them. Solas took one step forward as if he meant to chase after her, but he stopped out of some struggle within. His hands came out from behind his back, hanging loosely by his sides. 

“It isn’t a game or a chase, it…” he sighed, brow furrowing in frustration as he pressed at the fingers of his left hand, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I never meant…” Her laugh was a mirthless, dry sob. 

“You regret your words _now?_ Or your feelings, if you even have any,” she asked, then hurried before he could answer because she was afraid of what he might say, “You want to know the truth? You won’t understand it.” He looked up from his hands with a sliver of hope. “ **Zu'u los nokin, nuz lokaal tol ag fah hi ko dii hil los ol vahzah ol dovahro yol.”**

He sighed. “I do not know that language.”

“No, you do not _understand_ it, just as you don’t understand _anything_ that came out of your mouth,” she cried, then finally turned her back on him. 

“I could say the same for you,” came his reply, though it sounded weary. These arguments were hopeless. Neither would admit to being wrong. _Like the Wolf and the Courser._ She started walking blindly—she needed to get away before she said or did anything else stupid. “Where are you going?”

“To do something self destructive, evidently,” she muttered, and fled as a raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Maori beat Bull but couldn't beat Solas? Hmmmm....
> 
> Translations  
> [Ajuvian]: craft-mirror (Made this up. But I imagine it to be like the Mirror of Transformation. June had to have some cool inventions like it.)  
> [Iron Bull _panal manen_ ]: Iron Bull fights water
> 
> I used the Dovahzul dragon language for Maori's words to Solas. The dragons in DA actually do have their own language as seen in one of the comics (the Silent Grove, I think?) but since there isn't a lexicon out there yet, I'm borrowing cross-universes lol  
> Here it is:  
>  **Zu'u los nokin, nuz lokaal tol ag fah hi ko dii hil los ol vahzah ol dovahro yol.”** = _[I am a liar, but the love that burns for you in my heart is as true as dragon’s fire.]_
> 
> Anyway, it is less a declaration of her love than it was just an slight against him...I'm sure you get it. Her love is fiyahhhh.
> 
> Also, Solas has his reasons for what he said. She's not an Inq. Lavellan, so I imagine he'd be a different brand of 'super conflicted'.  
> Am I talking too much? >.>


	86. Liar Lyre [Pt. 1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part of a 20k word chapter! Splitting in two because lots of emotional stuff. :)
> 
> i. [Eight of Cups](https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/minor-arcana/suit-of-cups/eight-of-cups/)
> 
> ii. The Dread Wolf's Nightmare
> 
> iii. Nydha'las
> 
> iv. No Rest For the Wicked
> 
> v. Tongue Twisting Tricksters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a drawing for [v. Tongue Twisting Tricksters] at the end!

~~[Eight of Cups]~~

Dorian heard a familiar raised voice from behind the inn and then a raven flew over it. _That wasn’t a coincidence._ Yin paused just inside the atrocious blue doorway, waiting.

“ _Cuore mio?_ ” Yin called in confusion.

“Meet me at the Cup and Casque,” he said, “I think I saw Maori running away down the other street.”

“What? Is she all right?” Yin asked, looking torn. They’d returned to the inn because a runner had found them bearing news that Commander Cullen had finally arrived. 

“No idea, but I’m going to find out. Go meet with your Commander and don’t worry about it. I’m sure it was nothing,” he said. Yin grumbled but acquiesced much to his relief. As soon as the door shut, Dorian booked it down the street, glancing down the Herring’s alley and a glimpse confirmed his suspicions when he saw the silhouette of Solas making his way through—alone. He kept running though, searching the skies for the bird. He caught her flying over the next plaza—to the east—then he lost her. 

“Hm, Cup and Casque _is_ that way,” he said to himself, but that didn’t mean much. All he knew was what he’d heard. Maordrid in despair, raising her voice at Solas. That couldn’t be a good thing.

Dorian searched every watering hole he saw along the way and stopped to call her name every time he saw a raven. He probably looked a proper madman.

Even so, asking around he found out that there were only four taverns that she could have gone to if she went as far as the next district from the Ivory Herring. The Cup and Casque was one of them, so he decided to give up the search and go there immediately. He was running out of daylight anyhow and looking for ravens in the night was just silly.

The tavern that the others had invited them to was shabby for a Royan establishment, but that was to be expected from someone like Varric and Iron Bull. He would never admit to anyone that he typically preferred such places anyway. They could almost always be relied on to sell alcohol strong enough to wipe the polish off a magister’s boot. At this time of day, the slightly-tilted four-story building was beginning to fill and he was able to slip inside without much notice. He spotted the familiar crowd in a corner at the same time that Bull and Dhrui noticed and waved him over.

“By any chance, has Maordrid stopped by?” he asked casually, coming to stand at the table. There was a feast laid out before them and several empty flagons on one side. 

“Nah, not sure she’s comin’ either. She’s always been flaky ‘bout drinks,” Bull said, taking a swig a little clumsily. Some of the froth trickled down his chin. _Barbaric beast,_ he thought with amusement. “Trust me, we’ve been keeping tabs on who comes through that door. Always got a bet running, you know?” Dorian flashed him a smile, but he caught a flicker of pale skin and a black braid of hair on the second level, a horn of drink held in hand. 

“I’m going to get a bottle,” he said, glad that no one cared for once as he pushed away and searched for a stairwell. He _did_ grab himself said drink first before heading up. The first level was packed, and the second was just as bad but a quick walk along the floor peeking around privacy screens and booths told him she’d gone higher. _She wants to be alone, obviously. Not this time, my dear._

And of course that meant being at the top of the building where it would be the hottest and no one save the shadiest folk would be present where they could conduct private business without interference. But she was still nowhere to be seen. Dorian sighed, uncorking his bottle and standing by one of the open windows that was allowing the fresher air to dilute the ale-soured cloud present inside. However, of the four windows on each side of the floor, his was the only one cracked. 

“Got you,” he realised, turning and pushing the pane open a little more. A stool kicked over by the wall told him he was correct in his assumptions. He used it to climb up and poke his head out. It was a jerkinhead-style roof that made for easy climbing and sitting upon, thankfully. Dorian pulled himself through the window and clambered up, spotting the crafty little elf sitting near the opposite end already with four bottles lined neatly behind her. “Could you have found a more dramatic place to sit?” he asked, plopping down beside her. Maori didn’t answer, tipping a bottle back and following it with a swig from the horn still in her hand. “Ah. It was bad then.” She spoke, but it was in elven-Tevene. “As much as I enjoy your polyglotism, you should stick with common for me.”

“How didzhu find me, _ma vhen…vhenan falon?_ ” she slurred thickly, looking down so that she could set the now-empty horn by her thigh. In the fading light, he thought there might have been a wetness on her cheek, but that could have been ale or sweat. She didn’t shed tears over men. There was also a half-healed cut on her face.

“Oh, you’ve quite overdone it tonight. Shall I cut you off so there is still a chance you _might_ be conscious for Eivuna tomorrow?” he tried. Maori laughed wetly as he took her face between his hands and carefully closed the cut with his meagre healing skills.

“The roh- _mmawntic_ bard?” she said with distaste after he was done. “If I dun’t go, then how will I ‘void him?” 

“Maker’s bollocks, what has he done to you, Maordrid?” he muttered. “He’s not an all-powerful elf lord yet, there’s still time for him to know mortal wrath. I’m more than willing to deliver.” 

“ _N…no_ ,” she said, taking another swig. “Why d’you care ‘nyway? Should make you happy. Doesn’t want me.” He sighed, drinking his own boot-polish, relishing the burn before setting it to the side. Someone needed to be sober to get them both down from the roof later.

“That’s not true. I want to see you happy,” he said, reaching out to snatch the bottle away as she raised it again, but she was quick to hold it out of reach. “Maori, tell me what happened. This is a tad excessive, even for you.”

“Self-destructive?” she spat, but her ire didn’t seem aimed in his direction. “’Tis loathing. _Self_ -loathing. He was right.” Dorian remained silent, not quite knowing what to say to that. “He wounded me, got ‘imself a way…to get away. Typical folktale Wolf.” Her next laugh was not something he liked the sound of. It was too broken. “I can’t even tell him, Dorian. Where my hurt comes from. _Why._ ”

“Would it help if you told me?” he tried. She took another drink and this time he swiped it from her hand and threw his arm across her shoulders. She groaned, but didn’t fight it, instead leaning heavily into his side.

“Nothing you want to hear,” she said.

“I do. I care,” he soothed. Maori gave a long suffering sigh, blinking slowly up at him. 

“Oh, _Dorian_. I hurt people I loved. Was convinced serving the gods would reward us all. Kinna like your Maker,” she said with a heavy sigh. “So I let them put _val…vallslsin_ on me. Let them alter my…body.” Clumsy fingers grasped at the hem of her shirt before giving up, then patted her right breast. “Nothin’ there—better for bows. Took my guts out too so no man could ever…not that I’d ever want it in the first place. Weapon in the hand, like he said.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Centuries being told I’m worthless. I tried harder—they were q…qu…weller?”

“Crueler?” he supplied and she nodded. “My dear Maori, you don’t need to tell me anymore.” He hugged her tightly until she grunted uncomfortably and pulled jerkily away from him.

“’S not me anymore, Dorian,” she mumbled, “Made peace a long time ago.”

“Maybe not entirely,” he said. She huffed.

“Enough for my mission,” she said, then twisted, tapping slender fingers along the bottles in search of a full one, but when that failed to turn up results, she growled and buried her face in her hands. “I did not fear death until…until I…”

“Fell in love?” he supplied. She didn’t answer.

“…and then he pushes me away. Is it ‘cause he thinks I’m trying to kill myself? Is it ‘cause he’s bound? I thought…I thought we could…” Her shoulders began to shake silently. 

“My poor dear, stop it, he’s a bit thick, but not oblivious,” he said, gathering her into his arms. She was so small, as though the world was crushing her into the smallest possible form she would go. He tucked her head beneath his chin, staring out over the twinkling city below. “He’s just afraid for your life and doesn’t know how to express it because I take it _love_ isn’t his forte. He probably has no idea how to deal with a tiny she-elf who _also_ happens to be a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Couple that with the constant stress of seeing a loved one put themselves in harm’s way…well, fear breeds anger.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. _Sappy speeches. She owes me._ “I feel the same about Yin, you know. And sometimes that frustration comes out. It’s hard to know what is going on in that bald head of his, but I can say with Tevinter-quality confidence that Solas cares _immensely_ for you. Ugh, he probably loves you and you’re essentially throwing a silverite rod in the wheels of his own plans. He will never guess that you are a time travelling…ancient ally of his, which is probably driving him up the wall trying to figure that one out.” Her half-laugh was a small victory.

“He says horrible things when he’s mad,” she murmured, plucking at his robe. “I raised a shield once that held up against an elven ballista. But I can’t even manage to defend m’self against his words? How dumb.” She started shaking again but this time with rasping laughter. Dorian ran a hand along her back soothingly. 

“I might not have been fully supportive of…this thing you have with him,” he said slowly. “But Dhrui on the other hand is a staunch supporter. She calls you Maolas, can you believe that?” She didn’t answer. “I suppose it has begun to rub off on me some. Yes, I know, shut up. The girl has some wisdom about her. I don’t like it, I think Solas is a complete ass, but she’s not wrong, per se. And Yin is on the same page as his sister. I’m surrounded by romantics.” She remained still and when he pulled away a little to look at her he saw that her eyes had closed and her breathing had slowed. _“Kaffas._ You didn’t hear a word of that,” he said with a sigh. Dorian shook her lightly until she began to stir again. “Come, let’s get you into a bed and I’ll prepare your recovery treatment. You _are_ coming with me to that blighted performance tomorrow. I will not suffer alone.” Maori groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose before nodding and leaning very much the wrong way before he managed to grab her shoulders and yank her away from the edge. “No, don’t you dare try to fly off like this. We’ll get you a bed here.” 

“No. Back to White…fish,” she said, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

“You know that is exactly where Solas is sleeping, right?” he said, guiding her carefully along the roof. Fortunately, the window wasn’t on too dangerous an incline. He helped her slide along it, then held her arms as she scraped somewhat painfully back through the window. When he joined her inside, she was leaning heavily against the wall glaring at a table of confused bar-goers that were staring back at them. Dorian wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward the stairwell.

“Piss it. I’m not afraid of Solas,” she muttered. 

“You’re afraid of your feelings for him,” he corrected. She didn’t answer, choosing instead to focus her entire attention on descending the stairs properly. When he tried to carry her, she pushed his arms away and almost fell, but admirably kept her feet and walked the rest of the way down. On the ground level, she wavered and held her stomach. “Wait until we’re _not_ in sight of our companions? Let’s keep a little dignity, yes?” She nodded and leaned into him again. As they passed within the shadows, he saw only Yin take notice. He nearly stood upon seeing her vulnerable state but Dorian made eye contact and shook his head. He nodded and sat back down, then began speaking to keep the other’s attentions on him. 

Once outside, the light of the lanterns gave him a good look at her. She was pallid, clammy, and slightly green. Though, when she heaved into a bush or two along the way, some of her colour came back. 

“You’re not a very fun drunk, you know,” Dorian said as they continued to walk. The Herring was coming up soon and he was worried about leaving her in that room with Solas, if he was holed up there alone. 

“Take that back,” she growled, “You caught me on a bad day.” He chuckled and was glad to see a little smile on her face.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said as she spat more chunks from her mouth. Once outside the Herring, Maori faltered at the door, resting a hand against the jamb and staring at the entry as though it were the Void itself. “Having second thoughts? Just say the word and we’ll reroute. You can even stay in our room, if you like.” She clenched her jaw and shook her head.

“I am no coward,” she said through gritted teeth.

“No, far from it in fact,” he said with a laugh, opening the door and assisting her inside. “You know, I thought you could hold your liquor better. You had, what, six drinks? I thought ancient elves would need to drink for a year straight before feeling even a tingling.” That got her to laugh again.

“How often you think I drink on duty like this, Dorian?” she said acerbically. 

“You _do_ have a flask,” he said, snatching up a complimentary decanter of water by the stairs.

“Exactly. I don’t carry an entire bottle,” she said. “When I drink, i’s for reason.”

“Like being sad.” 

“Or angry.” They stopped outside of her room where she stared blearily at the warm light filtering from beneath the unevenly set door.

“Sure about this, _parvissima dracona_?” he said, placing his hand on the doorhandle. She nodded and he opened it. Maori leaned on him as though all the strength had been sapped from her, but he would not let her fall. They walked inside and he didn’t bother to fight the frown at the sight of Solas sitting in a chair, head buried in his hands. When the man looked up at their entry, he saw red-rimmed eyes and derived both a visceral satisfaction and a small relief to know that Solas wasn’t completely heartless. The man got to his feet, eyes only on the woman between them. Maori ignored him, however, sitting heavily on the smaller bed with her back turned to him. Dorian knelt before her, reaching to grab a cup from off the nearby nightstand to fill it with water. 

Solas swept from the room, silent as a ghost.

“Well, that was easy,” he said, looking after him. Maori drained the cup and took the decanter, abandoning civility in favour of drinking as much liquid as possible. “If you don’t slow down, it’s going to all come back up.” She set it down in her lap with a gasp, peering into the opening.

“Dorian?” She looked at him almost demurely. 

“Yes?” He moved to sit beside her, wishing he had bread or something to soak up the mess in her stomach.

“I loathe you and I think a rock has more brains,” she said, pulling a laugh from him.

“I hate you too,” he said. “I hope I am at least a _pretty_ rock.” She snorted.

“The prettiest,” she said, throwing back some more water. A throat cleared by the doorway and the two of them looked to see that Solas had returned bearing a plate of food. 

“You should eat. It will help,” he said to her in a rough voice. His eyes flicked over to Dorian then back to her. Maori sighed and gripped his hand tightly.

“There is still time to enjoy your night,” she said to him, not meeting his eyes. “Go, at least, for me.”

“Are you sure?” he said, avoiding Solas’ gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” she smiled and leaned up, kissing his cheek sweetly. Dorian sighed, squeezed her hand, and got to his feet, giving the Somniari a level look. 

“I will be back in the morning to check on you,” he said, holding Solas’ eyes while straightening his cloak. At Maori’s quiet agreement, Dorian took his leave without saying another word to the tall elf. The guilt in his eyes was sufficient enough for him. Perhaps there was hope for the man after all. 

  


  


~~[ii. The Dread Wolf's Nightmare]~~

  


Solas set the food on the beside table and stood before her, fists curled in loosely at his sides. Her stomach clenched at the smells, not sure how much she would be able to keep down. 

“There is a nausea tea,” he said stiffly. “Bread and honey as well.” Methodically, she reached over to the plate and went through the necessary motions, focusing through everything rather than on. At least the hangover would be a worthy distraction from him.

“You want to talk again don’t you,” she muttered before chewing on honeyed bread. She lifted her grainy eyes to his face to see him staring pointedly at the window over her shoulder.

“That would be unfair in your current state,” he replied. “But let me know if I can be of anymore help.” He waited, just a small pause, but when she didn’t respond he gave a sigh and returned to his side of the room. Maori finished the food without tasting and drank the tea feeling less and less like a person and more like a husk. After, she lay down on Dhrui’s bed, relieved when the horizontal position did not bring vertigo. 

“May I ask you something?” her wine-slicked tongue asked anyway, though her eyes threatened to cut her off from the world. 

“I do not think you are alert enou—”

“Solas, please,” she said wearily. He was quiet, waiting. “I want to know if you believe everything you said.” There was a slight hesitation, but he said quietly, “No.” She rolled her head to look at him where he sat in the chair by the window. “Then why did you say those things?” she asked, swallowing thickly before she forced herself to continue, “If you did not think there was…” she couldn’t finish the thought. “…why not end it the night we spoke at Griffon Wing?” His eye caught the moonlight as he looked up through the window. 

“I didn’t because of hope,” he said. “Hope for a better outcome. Of change.”

“What outcome?” she blurted. “You have never told me the cause of your undying fatalism.”

“Neither will you share yours with me,” he deflected. They were both quiet, stewing once more. Until she gathered the courage to get up again. The room tilted a little as she steadied herself, standing with her hand pressed into the mattress. “Maordrid?” Her stomach rolled but she held it down, determined to make her way around the room—to him. She padded across the floor and knelt by his outstretched legs, peering up at him. Solas sat up from his slump, meeting her eyes dolefully.

“Whatever it is, I forgive you,” she said, letting it fall from her lips heavy and sincere. She wasn’t expecting the weak, choking sound that escaped his throat. His hand curved beneath her wrist and he came sliding onto the ground, gathering her into his arms. She returned the embrace firmly, burying her face in his sweater. This time, a tear escaped her eye. The first to fall free in many hundreds of years. “Forgive yourself. Move on.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m sorry.”

“I did this to myself…but I know you mean well,” she murmured, forcing the tears back. “You just go about doing everything the wrong way. Sometimes it makes things worse.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“Your words are truer than I think you know,” he whispered, turning his mouth against the side of her head. “It is unnerving.” She smiled, running a hand up his broad back.

“Solas, don’t…don’t go now,” she beseeched. “We have toiled and troubled together through so much.” With reluctance in the lines of his body, he pulled back to sit on his heels, searching her face while holding her arms. 

“You are a dream that has fallen from the Fade,” he said, with a small shake of his head. “Or a nightmare that has escaped from it, chasing me like a hound.” Her semi-drunken brain realised he’d just subtly revealed himself to her.

“Does that make you Fen’harel?” she said before she could stop herself, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“If it did, would you aim to cut another piece from me?” he asked very quietly. Her lip twitched. _I’m too drunk for this and he knows it. Probably thinks I won’t remember. Void, I might_ not _._

“No. He spends his time with too many nightmares, according to the legends,” she said, leaning her head against the armrest. “I would bid him stop and offer him a peaceful dream. Respite from his worries. Maybe he’s better company than most people...not as wretched as the Dalish make him out to be.”

“You would make a peace offering to the Dread Wolf?” he said, baffled. His hands slid down her arms to ball up on his knees, staring at her with wonder now. She shrugged, still resting her head and shutting her eyes as she quickly plied an answer.

“From one pariah to another, yes, why not. Although, if I am a nightmare like you say, then maybe we would get along even better. I am not Dalish. I think we could be great friends,” she said, enjoying the charade too much. “Or, I would be the worst nightmare he’s ever had. A shadowy, terror-inducing Fade wolf that is used to bringing about nightmares of death and destruction and suddenly he encounters a fragment of a nightmare that takes a liking to him. Maybe it falls in love, since that would be nightmare material to him. How do you think he would react?” Solas stared at her before a laugh escaped him and he pressed the heel of his hand between his brows.

“He would think you have had too much to drink,” he said, lifting his head again. She got back to her feet slowly, assisting her climb with the armrest.

“If you will not have a drink with me tomorrow night, then I will have to invoke Fen’harel and we will enjoy ourselves getting drunk on sweet nightmares. You may never see me again,” she dared to continue, rolling onto the nearest bed. Peering through mostly-closed eyelids, she saw Solas standing by the bed like a lonely shadow with the moonlight at his back.

“Therein lies the true nightmare,” came his reply.

“Good night, Solas.” His low, thoughtful hum vibrated through her head like lazy bees.

“Rest well, _siu nydha’era’geal_.” 

  


~~ **[iii. Nydha'las]** ~~

Solas extinguished the lights with a fluid motion of his hand only to find his arm suspended in the air when his eyes were drawn back to the still form on the bed. A nimbus of silver filtered in from the window where it spilled softly across her form like white silk. The sight lured him forward, knees pressing against the edge of the sheets. She was vulnerable unlike any other day or night that he had seen her. With her mind loosened by drink and her emotions and body without armour, it was as though she were lying practically naked before him.

And that was the invitation his wicked eyes took to roam about her figure. Her knees were folded loosely beneath her, one arm strewn across her hips while the other lay supine on the sheets beside her thigh. The laces of her silken tunic were a mess of loose snakes at her chest, leaving one pale shoulder and collarbone bare to the eye of the moon. His eyes traced along the slope of her neck, then jaw, sliding along the blade of her ear and into her lightless hair. 

He could scarcely believe that hours earlier he had tried to push this a rare and beautiful creature away. Worse, that he had been too weak to follow through after putting forth the effort to be cruel to her. That he had put her _through_ it—forced her to suffer for naught. Another hopeless battle he was losing.

Like many times before, she had weathered his attempt to poison her against him. She had seen through it. Calling him out unexpectedly with that ridiculous cautionary Dalish tale, twisting it to bolster the strength of her accusation. _You would sever a piece of yourself to be free—to run away,_ she’d said with ferocity - an anger such as he’d never seen in her. _He_ had evoked it. And If he tried to cut her from his heart now, he wasn’t sure he could endure her loss. She had brought rains with her storm—waters that fed and nourished until a flourishing garden sprouted in a place he’d previously thought barren. The beautiful overgrowth made it difficult to see his path. Tearing it out would make it easier to walk, of course, and it was the most obvious choice—his duty demanded he do it. To uproot it all…no, he would never recover. 

Solas sat gently on the edge of the bed, still observing her slumbering form, heart aching to reach out to her once more. His fingers toyed with the end of her long braid, pulling the tie free, setting it aside…then considered again. 

Her forgiveness was not something he deserved, but she had given it nonetheless. Forgiving himself was harder. She gave him no time to recuperate by following her sincerity with a drunken jest that yanked him in a direction he was not prepared for. He’d walked right into it with the comment about nightmares, not expecting her to take it and run with it. Usually, he did not derive any sort of amusement about his title—at least, not anymore—but the way it rolled from that fiery tongue of hers gave him a perverse sort of thrill he’d not felt for ages beyond counting. That she’d been poetic about it made it worse. She was drunk, yes, but his mind had been spinning over her ludicrous threat. A nightmare falling in love with Fen'harel. If he approached it from a realistic perspective, simply put, she was talking about loving another man. She’d driven it home with that final, subtle taunt to draw him out—to share drink with Fen’harel, or again, she was likely implying she would do so with another mortal instead of with him and… _you may never see me again._ The _audacity_ she had to alter her voice like that. Into a pale tone of seduction—a delicate curl to her accent, like smoke on water—that he knew would not have been present if not for the alcohol emboldening her. He could only imagine what kind of a terror she would have been at court in Elvhenan. Parsing the true meaning of her words was as riveting as it was frustrating.

He raised a hand shakily to his mouth, realising several things at once.

One, that he would lose her if he did not make up his mind soon.

Two, if he _did_ give her what he desired more than anything to give, there would be no turning back. If he did, she would become the hound in the story and hunt him down, the prospect of which terrified him because he wasn’t confident anymore that he could outrun her. He didn’t want to and so she might very well succeed. There was no knowing what she would do if she caught him. What _he_ would do.

Three, if they gave in, he would be condemning them both. A fate he would not wish on his worst enemy. But again, he looked back on point _two_ and was faced with a loop where she would chase him anyway. She was not afraid of anything.

Four, in those two absurd hypothetical threats of hers, she had left him feeling dangerously hopeful with a mounting sense of desperation to act. 

And finally, if all else failed—he needed to at the very least tell her what she meant to him. He could manage that small kindness through a dream…or during their ride to the temple in the east. He looked at her again. _No. Sooner, not later. The path is too unpredictable for hesitation._

_I should stay away altogether…_

He eagerly ignored that thought as she let out a soft sigh in her sleep. 

Solas gently removed her boots from her small feet and coaxed her hair from its braid, picking each individual strand from her face, despairing that he was running out of things he could do to make her more comfortable—excuses to stop touching her. He swiped the duvet from the other bed for her, as the nights _were_ getting colder and they did not have a hearth in their room. He stopped when she shifted under the covers, watching her with rapture. Her face turned toward him on the down pillow, pale, enticing lips full and parted slightly in her sleep. The way her black lashes fanned across the apples of her cheeks, casting faint crescents by the moon… 

In his haste to grab his worn sketchbook, his fingers nearly dropped his stick of charcoal and several pieces of loose parchment on the ground. He turned to an empty page as quietly as he could without making the paper crackle and stopped again with the tip of the charcoal poised just above the smooth surface. _Is this too much? Am I obsessing?_ He’d already one or two pages folded and tucked like secrets into the back of the journal. He wet his lips with his tongue and made one quick, curving stroke that would be her chin. No, he needed to do this. So he could look back and draw strength from her face when he faltered on the path ahead—whether she was behind, with, or against him. 

Peace became him with the rhythmic rasp of charred wood on paper. Her quiet breaths beside him were a solace. Alive. _Real_. 

The small piece lay finished before long, lacking only one step. He always gave names to them, or made notes to himself as a bit of insight into what he might have been thinking at the time of creation and completion. This one came in four new words that he scrawled in flowing script in the space above the junction of her beautiful neck. 

_Emma las._

_Somniar vhenan._

  


  


~~[iv. No Rest For the Wicked]~~

  


A man’s sonorous humming dispersed the last of her dream like sunlight through morning mist. 

It was a shame such lovely singing did not take the headache with it.

“Take your time, deary, we’re all alone this fine morning,” Dorian’s cheery voice greeted her as her leaden eyelids fluttered. “Really didn’t think I’d get you to myself at all, actually.” She managed to keep her eyes open to the bright light coming in through the window and hoisted herself into a sitting position, blinking around the room. She went to speak, but her mouth was glued shut by its own saliva. Blessed Dorian was holding out a cup while maintaining his study on a book in his hand. She accepted it and drank greedily, not registering whether it was water or tea or something else sweet.

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ ” she mumbled when her mouth was finally lubricated enough. Dorian huffed a laugh and shut his book raising his head to look at her. “Where are the others?”

“Out. Searching for Satinalia gifts, or so I’ve been told,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel great,” she mumbled sarcastically. Everything felt…sticky. Velvet teeth, oily hair, stiff face. _Ugh._

“And how much do you remember of last night? Or yesterday, for that matter,” he said conversationally, crossing a leg. “Answer seriously, this is truly an academic moment. A hungover ancient elvhen, in an unfamiliar habitat.” She took her time to think, downing more of the ginger-lemon-elfroot concoction. There was a hint of soothing mana in it, mixed in with the honey. Healing. _Solas?_

“I recall a roof. You came for me,” she said, remembering the blur of white and gold of his robe. “Then…I vomited. A lot.”

“On my new shoes,” he added. “You are _lucky_ I filched Vivienne’s stain-cleaning spell before leaving Skyhold. Or else I’d make you buy me new ones. Now go on, do you remember coming back here?” She raised a brow and looked toward the vacant chair by the window. She laughed, then regretted it, pressing a thumb to her throbbing temple. “You didn’t spew your guts out to Solas, did you?”

“I forgave him,” she said, remembering a little now. “He more or less apologised.” Dorian got up and sat on the bed with her, leaning back against the headboard and folding his hands in his lap.

“You… _forgave_ him,” he repeated dubiously, looking down at her. “You know, I expected you to at least let him suffer longer than a night. Maybe go out to the performance and revenge fuck someone.” Her eyes widened, recalling the last bit of conversation.

“Void…did I really…?” she began, but Dorian gasped.

“ _No_ , did you do that last night? Before I found you?” he asked a little too excitedly. Her laugh was agony, but it was worth it as she began to remember the finer details of her conversation with Solas. She shook her head.

“Does it count if it’s threatening to get drunk with Fen’harel? With innuendo,” she asked. Dorian gave her a funny look.

“Are they…separate entities?” he wondered.

“No, it’s just a title.”

“I imagine you didn’t outright _say_ it…” She scoffed.

“I had used a Dalish story to drive my point. _He_ was the one who brought it up again last night,” she defended. “I might have gotten a little carried away.” Dorian looked at the door thoughtfully.

“No wonder he was acting odd this morning. And by odd, I mean smiling a lot and being optimistic. Do you know how unnatural that looks on him?” She blinked over her cup, swallowing the hot liquid. “He and Dhrui left together doing elven _tongue twisters._ ” When she didn’t respond—because she really didn’t know what to say to that—Dorian chuckled to himself. “If it wasn’t the prospect of getting laid, I _think_ whatever you said to him made him happy.” Blushing furiously, she looked back at the empty chair by the window.

“Then…why isn’t he…”

“Here?” Dorian said, rocking back to the edge of the bed. “He seemed interested in going with Dhrui to find gifts. You want to know something else totally bizarre?” She raised a brow, waiting. “He said he will meet us at the Leaf and Lyre tonight. Solas. In a tavern.” He patted her knee. “So, if you _are_ all made up with him, I suggest we get on with your recovery and pretty you up because I _sure_ as nugshit refuse to be seen in public with you now.” He slid the rest of the way from the bed and sauntered into the bathing chamber where a cry of disgust echoed out. “ _This_ is unacceptable. We’re taking this to my room. Come along.” He slammed the door and grabbed up her travel pack as she swung her legs over the bed feeling a little woozy.

“This is ridiculous,” she hissed as he took her wrist and hauled her out of the room. “What do you intend to do?”

“Make you feel worth something, for once,” he answered, then peeked over his shoulder. “Amongst other things.” She had to stop inside Dorian’s room both to marvel and be a little sick out of the open window. 

“It got in my hair!” she groaned, holding the dripping locks away from her. The smell was almost enough to make her vomit again, but she managed to hold it back. 

“Bath. _Now_ ,” Dorian said, grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her into the chambers. The bath was _much_ nicer than theirs. It was marble set into the floor with its own aqueduct, similar to those at Skyhold. Dorian brushed past her with a glass bottle that he uncorked and let a stream of liquid pour from into the rushing water. His fingers traced a flashy glyph into the air that shimmered across the rippling waters where steam immediately began to rise. 

“A bubble bath? Are you serious?” she gaped when white foam began to accumulate on the surface.

“Are you going to tell me that ancient elves didn’t have luxuries? Did they all live in wagons and trees as the Dalish do now?” he asked, turning his back as she stripped and slid into the waters. A small groan of relief escaped her as the heat seeped into her muscles and farther into her bones.

“My people were probably too extravagant. Our overuse of magic woke up mountains in the early days,” she said, combing her fingers through her hair. “I have not partaken in fineries on my own time since before the Veil.”

“Several millennia have passed since then and you’re telling me you haven’t had a single chance to get a good long soaking in a bath?” he said sceptically. She turned in the water to face him, thinking. 

“I have been busy,” she said. He still didn’t know her exact role in all of it. Did it really matter? “You do realise that surviving every day for that long _is_ a time consuming task? Luxuries were not at the forefront of my mind when the world was changing so drastically before my eyes.” Dorian sighed and took a stool at the edge of the bath as she dunked under the surface.

“I suppose I find it incredibly difficult to fathom all that you have been through,” Dorian said when she came up. “Truly, not a single bit of fun? Off the top of your head, before the Veil— _go._ ” She caught a fancy bottle of liquid soap as he tossed it, thinking.

“Infiltrating one of Falon’din’s castles with intentions of being caught in order to learn the layout of his grounds,” she said. “Solas—or, Fen’harel, as I called him at the time, needed to map out each of the false gods’ holds to aid in the Rebellion. We changed our own _vallaslin_ with illusion magic to match Falon’din’s to stay undetected for as long as possible. But we were all caught, tortured, and nearly broken for what we knew, and then Sol—Fen’harel came in the night and broke us free.” Dorian gaped at her.

“Getting tortured is your idea of _fun?_ Are you still drunk?” he said.

“No, undermining Falon’din for any reason was fun,” she said. “Any time I spent with Shiveren and Inaean, we got into trouble we should not have. Especially with Shiv. So much that the other Solas asked us several times to take on more dangerous tasks since we were the only ones mad enough to do it and survive.” Dorian walked over to the linen closet and began pulling out towels.

“Do you even know how to have, oh, you know, _mortal_ fun? Does it still entertain you?” he mused. 

“Anything with you does,” she answered genuinely. “And with Dhrui, Yin…and Solas. You ground me and remind me that I am more than a suit of armour.” Dorian looked torn between appearing offended and touched, which was adorable.

“Get out of there. The water is making you too soft,” he ordered, but not without a fond sniff. She caught the towels with a hidden smile, stepping out and wrapping them around her. “Is that…something Solas said to you last night, by the way? The armour thing?” Her smile fell as they walked back out into the apartments. 

“Something like that,” she muttered, trying to ignore the pang of hurt. She’d forgiven him. That meant not holding his words against him. “It is nothing you have not said to me before. He was just…much fiercer.”

“Tends to happen when you’re angry at someone you love,” he remarked. “The people closest to us can hit us where it hurts the most. For being so eloquent…and old, you’d think he’d know all the right things to say.” 

“It seems like it should be that way,” she laughed, glad that it didn’t hurt her head too much. “But when all you have known for thousands of years is war and struggle, it is hard to get out of a rut so deep. Perhaps that is why it was easier to forgive him. I understand,” she said, watching as Dorian removed the few outfits she now owned. He started arranging them on the bed.

“You two are like two tragic peas in a pod,” he said. “If Varric ever gets a book deal off of you, I want in on the profit.” He gestured to a set of clothes she hadn’t seen before, then realised that it must have come out of the brown package from the Ambassador that had remained untouched since Skyhold. 

“I am _not_ wearing those,” she exclaimed, plucking at the cropped leather vest. “And look at the neckline in that!” The black cotton shirt that was intended to be worn beneath had a wide collar—meant to hang off the shoulders—and a single tie at the very top of a V shaped neckline. “Am I to look the salty wench?” Dorian burst out laughing.

“Done correctly, I think it would actually be quite tasteful. Josephine clearly thought so…and I think it has potential. Look, there’s even a belt— _oh_ and with a warming enchantment so you can go without a cloak!” She did like the belt. It had round labradorite stones embedded in it with gleaming dark green threads sewn into the leather around them in pretty whorls like vines—or maybe green ocean waves. But there was no way she was going without the fur-lined cloak.

“I have never worn anything this…revealing,” she said. Dorian gasped, shoving her.

“You’ve a filthy mouth when you want, but you’re a _prude_?” He _tsked_. She threw her hands up.

“No! Is it so difficult to believe that I actually think armour is pretty _and_ practical?” He tossed the shirt at her face.

“War and assassins in the dark, blah-blah, stop procuring excuses and try it on. It is only one day and then you can burn the thing if you really want,” he said. 

“You are truly lucky for this hangover or else I would spare myself the argument and burn it now,” she muttered, grabbing a pair of smalls to slip on. “Why…this all of a sudden, anyway?” He perched on the edge of the bed, crossing his arms.

“Does there have to be a reason?” That brought her up short as she got dressed. At least the pants were leatherbound. The shirt was loose until she cinched the belt in place, but the neckline was perilously revealing even with the pitiful tie at the top. The cropped leather vest gave her some measure of modesty, and she had to admit that she liked that it was made out of dragonling scales. As she went to braid her hair in its usual style, Dorian made an _ah-ah_ noise.

“Leave it down for once.” She obeyed, but sensed frustration looming on the horizon. “Also, have you ever worn your warriors’s kohl for any other reason besides intimidation?”

“Trying to line my eyes is not going to miraculously transform this ghoulish countenance into something remotely—”

“Your self-loathing is showing,” he sang, polishing one of his rings on his robe. She closed her mouth slowly, cheeks warming as she directed her frustration out of the tall windows. “ _I’m_ not going to shower you with shining compliments on your beauty. Solas will do all of that when he pulls his act together. And if he doesn’t, then you can come back to me and say _I told you so._ But I am rather confident that won’t happen.” He stood and began returning her other belongings back to her bag. “Now come, I need help finding Yin a Satinalia gift and wine simply won’t suffice. It would be silly to kill Corypheus only to die of cirrhosis soon after. Ha! Probably at the victory celebration.” 

“You know, I really should be trying to visit my agents while I have the moment free…” she tried as they departed his rooms.

“If even _Solas_ is taking the day to himself, _you_ can,” he argued. She sighed and decided to stop fighting the currents for once. It was not a comforting thought, but she did not have the strength to go back now. 

  


  


  


~~Tongue Twisting Tricksters~~

  


  


“Wait, wait, I got one, ready?” Dhrui looked up at him with a grin. Solas gestured for her to continue. “Dirthamen’s demonic dying dog digs to get guts.”

“ _Dirthamen’s daris dhar dinal daral gara ghein_ ,” he repeated back to her smoothly, then tossed a hand. “Child’s play. Are you even trying?” Dhrui gave a high pitched laugh, drawing disapproving glares from passerby. They were looking for a specific kind of shop but had gotten semi-lost in the process as she attempted to trip up his tongue. “My turn, _len’sila_.”

“Do your worst, _hahren_ ,” she said and then gasped excitedly when a hothouse appeared out of nowhere, surrounded by potted plants. Before venturing into the glass structure, they walked around admiring the outside garden.

“Today is already yesterday and yesterday is already today. The day has arrived, and today is today.” Dhrui laughed evilly, spinning to face Solas while walking backwards. He watched her, head tilted back with a sagely look on his face.

“ _Hoy ya es ayer y ayer ya es hoy. Ya llegó el día, y hoy es hoy,_ ” she fired his words back at him like arrows. His lip twitched in a manner only befitting that of someone unused to being thwarted. He bent to examine a dahlia the size of her hand, face smoothing back into its gentle aloofness. Or perhaps it was just the unique serenity formed from countless years of life. Maori had a similar resting expression. 

“Well done,” he said, nodding at her. “What about these?” He walked past her to a small trough filled with a rainbow of succulents. “She said she has never tried to keep plants before, but these take very little care. Water every week or so. For her accommodations back at Skyhold?” Dhrui nodded approvingly and swept her gaze across the nursery for someone to help them. There was a gardener—an elf by the looks of it—at the far end of the garden trimming a hedge. 

“Hello,” Dhrui said, approaching them. The elf looked at her sharply, taking in her garb and _vallaslin_. 

“ _Hmph_. You need something, _sauvage_?” Dhrui ignored the insult and pointed back over to where Solas waited by the trough.

“I’m interested in a few succulents,” she said. The gardener gave a long suffering sigh and picked up his trowel, then followed her back. Solas raised his brow without expression when the elf plunged the trowel into the soil rather violently and uprooted a bunch, digging his hand in and wrenching them from the trough. He stalked off without a word to either of them and disappeared into the glass house. She shrugged at Solas and continued walking, eye catching on a row of little cacti. “A spiny friend for our _falon_?” 

“A small threat, like her,” Solas said as he picked up a pot with a cactus only as big as her thumb. “She might stick herself with it and attempt to fight it, however.” He set it down.

She laughed, heading toward the glass house. “Probably true.” Inside, the gardener was still busy transplanting the succulents and muttering under his breath in Orlesian.

“Oh! I did not think they would have _da’adahls_ in this part of the world.” Solas glided across the tile floor to a beautiful display of miniscule trees all sitting within their own individual planters. Someone had placed cleverly carved little statues of people in some, creating adorable scenes arranged around the tree as a centerpiece. The one that caught her eye was a little fisherman sitting before a river filled with white sand. Little opalescent stone fish poked through the ‘water’, reminding her of the scene Maori had once shared with her in the Fade. The tree itself was a gorgeous white-trunked needle juniper with a second growth of dark grey wrapping around it in a twisting harmony. 

“This one,” she said, pointing to it. “We shall get that for our little dragon.”

“They take more care than succulents,” Solas warned. “But they can last for years with love and nurturing.”

“That’s exactly what she needs,” she said, removing it from the display. “We can say it’s from both of us. The more love the better, right?” She flashed him a smile and carried it over to the gardener without waiting for a response. The Orlesian seemed less than pleased that she had handled the little tree herself, but when she removed three royals from her pocket and pressed them into his hand. His eyes bulged. 

“Lady, it’s only one royal,” the elf said in his strong Orlesian accent. 

“And two more in your pocket. Think of them as seeds that will hopefully grow a smile on that salted dirt you call a face,” she retorted, taking the small crate of plants from him. “Good day, Ser.” She bowed and walked out holding her head high with Solas quickening his stride to catch up.

“Did I just witness a murder?” He sounded a weird mixture of proud and amused.

“I’m not done yet,” she said. “Are you ready? This one will either kill you…or kill you.”

“No chance of survival, then. Very well,” he said. “Go on.”

“Fighting sexy challengers in the Fade fools Fen’harel.” She shot him a challenging look. He made a choking sound, but then composed himself.

“ _Panal palasha…pala—_ no— _panelan…i’ve’an felas…Fen’harel_ — _fenedhis_ , that was terrible! I do not even know why I tried.” Dhrui cackled.

“I win! You stumbled!” she cried, shoving his arm. He growled but did not look like he was about to suffer a defeat. _Especially on his title,_ she thought wickedly amused.

“It was hardly a tongue twister,” he pouted. The next shoppe they found was in a more populated area of the the city. There was a book vendor with Varric’s novels in the windows on one side of the street and a place not three doors down that looked like it belonged in Denerim rather than in the resplendent gold and white sprawl of Val Royeaux. While its facade was marble—or whatever the white stone was that comprised practically the entire city—the inside was dim and somewhat musty with dust. And it was _crowded_ with crap that looked as though the owner had gone picking through a rubbish pile outside of a noble’s estate. She forged her way through to the only section somewhat clean of odds and ends. Sitting in that corner were a few polished stands bearing instruments, separated from all else like a group of healthy prize animals from sickly ones.

“Solas!” She whipped around, searching for him. His bald head popped up from behind a pile. “Get over here.” He carefully picked his way through, stepping over a cascade of fallen books and dodging a frayed broom hanging from the ceiling. She pointed to an instrument on the wall. 

“A lute,” he said, walking over but not touching it. “I am afraid I lack the expertise to determine its quality and condition.” Dhrui glanced around the crowded shoppe but didn’t see anyone around. Maybe the owner was dead and decaying beneath one of the fallen piles. She stepped forward and released it from its stand, cradling it in her arms. It seemed to have belonged to someone that had cared for it. They had lovingly carved little blackberry branches and leaves along its edges, as well as braided and knotted designs on its back in similar design to some of her _vallaslin_. Dhrui had only played once or twice before on an instrument owned by someone in her clan, but she had watched them play a hundred times before. She plucked each string and reached up to tune the pegs accordingly. 

“Do you like this one?” she asked, holding it out to him.

“The design is peculiar…but I think she will be happy to simply have something,” he took it into his arms as if it were made of the finest glass. “It is good enough.” Dhrui smiled and glanced around the cave of wonders for the materials she needed to make her gifts while Solas went searching for the owner. She smiled secretively as she heard him strumming errant chords. Meanwhile, she did find the leather straps and several colourful glass beads that she required for her crafting. She had already commissioned an Arlathan-noble’s arm cuff for Yin from the Elgalas woman. She didn’t see anything else that she could add to her arms, so she joined Solas at the front where they decided to leave an estimated payment in gold on the counter before leaving. They walked into the book store next and Dhrui found a second gift for Cassandra in a limited edition of her favourite chapter of Swords and Shields. Solas didn’t seem too interested in buying anything for anyone beyond Maori, so shopping there went relatively quick and on the way back to the inn where they sought to store their gifts, she picked up a beautiful belt with a scabbard for Blackwall. The scabbard itself had a motif worked into it of griffons and dragons flying through swirling skies. She was quite proud of that find.

When they returned, Maordrid was not there, but she’d left a note on the door. Solas seemed mightily disappointed—if the knitting of his brow and frown was any sign—that she was gone. She helped Solas hide the lute, wrapping it in one of the two cloaks she had bought and stowing it away in his rucksack. 

“You are really going to wait weeks to give that to her?” she asked him. “We could be seriously entertained on that long road back to Skyhold.” Solas sat back on his heels simply staring at the instrument. “You'll still have the tree to give her on Satinalia.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said and left it hidden.

“It’s time to go find Yin and the others,” she said, rising to her feet. Solas remained where he was, emanating a strange sense of melancholy. “Are you going to be all right?” The spell fell from around his head momentarily and he looked up with a small smile that quickly faded.

“Do not trouble yourself with my worries, _lethallin_. There is nothing to be benefited from it,” he said with a finality that gave her no room to brook an argument. Ordinarily, she wasn’t one to back down from a confrontation but that was not a line she wanted to cross with him. Especially after what Dorian had told her about the night before.

“You might not think so, _lethallan,_ but I’m here if you ever need to talk,” she said, patting his shoulder. Solas remained quiet, even as he got to his feet. 

As they were leaving the room and Solas was locking the door, a familiar rolling Antivan voice issued from down the hallway, announcing Yin's own spontaneous arrival. The two of them wandered out and saw him sneaking a few wrapped gifts himself into his own room. 

“Ah, perfect, we can all go together!” he said, catching sight of her. “Is the angry Teacup or the magnificent Vint with you?” 

“There was a note on the door saying that Dorian absconded with her,” Dhrui said, walking down the hall so they weren’t shouting for all to hear.

“I haven’t seen a wink of them all day,” Yin said from inside his room. “I suppose we will just have to hope they don’t get into trouble. We may want to check alleyways for a dead elf on the way—ow! Dhrui! Fine, a small fire-breathing elf standing over a ring of Chevalier corpses?” 

“We still have _three hours_ ,” she groaned. “I know where I’m goin’!” Yin whirled on her in the action of slipping into a finer shirt and coat.

“Running off to find _him_ again?” he whined. 

“When was the last time you and Solas— _your best friend_ —spent some quality time together?” she asked. He yanked on the special glove Dagna had made for him over his marked hand, glowering as he did it.

“ _Mamae_ would be proud of the _reasonable_ woman you’ve become,” he said, biting it out like an insult. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and raised her head in the manner their mother used to when she was displeased. 

“And you’re like Raj getting all uppity about who I spend my time with,” she said. He gasped.

“You take that back! I’m nothing like your stuffy twin,” he hissed. “Fine, get out of here, I don’t like you anyway.” She chortled and bowed out of the room, spotting Solas leaning against the wall at the intersection of the three hallways.

“Before you go, I have one last phrase for you,” he told her just before she passed him.

“Oh? You’re trying to recover from your loss?” she said, hoping Yin would witness the absolute licking Solas was about to get. “Well, go on. Let’s make it quick and painless.” She saw a flash of triumph in his eyes and the image of a wolf circling a wounded prey came to mind. _You’re not as scary as you think, Fen!_

“I’ve heard a quote which they say I said. That quote is misquoted; if I had said it, it would be better said than the quote which they say I said.” She blinked, putting out a false sense of doubt. His clever lips curled into a wolfish grin. _Heh, wolfish._ “Well, _assan’av?_ ” She moved her own lips soundlessly, shifted her feet from side to side, then immediately dropped the act, baring her teeth in a feral grin. His face fell as his folly dawned upon him.

“ _Me han dicho un dicho que han dicho que he dicho yo. Ese dicho está mal dicho; si lo hubiera dicho yo, estaría mejor dicho que el dicho que han dicho que he dicho yo.”_ Solas stood motionless, eyes narrowed. At that time, Yin joined them with a deeply amused expression on his face.

“Tongue twisters with Dhrui Lavellan? Oh, my poor Fadewalker, you didn’t know what you were getting into, did you?” Yin patted him on the back. “She’s run off demons with that quick tongue of hers.” She gave Solas a toothy smile and strutted away, leaving behind the ex-Dalish First and the Dread Wolf who was not so dread after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew Solas and Dhrui! _Dhrui!_ IT WAS SO HARD.  
>  Here's the link to it on my Tumblr  
> [Our Tongue Tying Tricksters find a Tree](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/186368293132/dhrui-lavellan-solas-from-chapter-86-tongue)  
> Translations:  
> [ **parvissima dracona** ]: little dragon  
> [ _siu nydha’era’geal_ ] : haha if you can't guess this you're S.O.L. Context clues :>  
> [ **Emma las** ]: Hahah nice try (hint: you can piece it together in Fenxshiral's lexicon)  
> [ **Somniar vhenan **]: C'mon guys lol  
> ****  
>   
>   
>  [ **Nydha'las** ]: ;D  
> [ **len’sila** ]: student, learner, thinking person.


	87. Liar Lyre [Pt. 2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **The Wolven Storm**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a song linked in the chapter body, so look out for that!

By the time Dorian had decided to stop dragging her through shops, she was mostly cured of her hangover but had a wicked headache from the amount of anxiety that had been building over the last few hours. She decided that she loathed shopping in Orlais. Seaside and festival bazaars had been tolerable in _her_ time, but she in present day, she was beginning to outright despise Val Royeaux. 

“Have you always been this much of a sulk?” Dorian asked as they walked from the parfumerie.

“No, it is just my face,” she deadpanned. “I do not understand the appeal of walking into a place like that and being bombarded by ridiculous questions. And the sheer amount of…of overacting! It is not even convincing acting.” Dorian snickered, shifting one of the fancy ‘gift bags’ he’d acquired over his shoulder.

“You would make for a terrible date at an actual theatrical play,” he said.

“Do you want to know what happened at the last one I attended?” she mused as they _thankfully_ began heading in direction of the Herring at last.

“I don’t think I need to guess.” She gave him a satisfied nod and lapsed into silence, thinking about the damn thing that had been on her mind all day but had never gotten a chance to ask. It was like he was intentionally steering them away from the subject of the mission constantly looming over her head. It was already incredibly rare for the two of them to be alone with the chance to discuss future plans and he was wasting it.

“Dorian,” she started, making her decision.

“Oh, the serious tone. That must mean I need to get a drink in you soon.” He glanced at her with humour but gestured for her to proceed anyway.

“I was actually curious about what _you_ had to say regarding the University’s archives,” she said. He made a noise one would when having been pleasantly reminded.

“I’ve been meaning to look more into those artifacts Yin mentioned that Solas had them ‘reactivating' throughout the land,” he said, slowing his brisk pace to a leisurely stroll. “Do you know about those? He claims they are meant to stabilise the Veil around them. Perhaps even measure its strength?” Vaguely. That must have been something unique only to Solas. They’d have to reference the transcript later.

“My knowledge lies heavy with _tearing_ holes into the Veil—not strengthening it. As I am sure most mages do,” she said slowly. Dorian nodded curtly.

“Yes, but if we are to do this properly, we need to also know how to strengthen it on a larger scale,” he said. “We cannot very well explode it like Corypheus is trying and say job done! Though, I know you know that. I simply want a chance to study those relics myself without Solas’ interference.” She chewed her lip, scanning her mind for opportunities for the two of them to do so.

“You think the Orlesian University will have the information we need?” she wondered. “Would that knowledge not be sequestered away somewhere in a Circle?” Dorian shrugged.

“We have to try, don’t we? Until we return to Skyhold where I can request books from the Circle in Minrathous, this is a stellar opportunity to search one of the best standing archives today,” he said.

“With limited time,” she reminded him, then sighed. “You are right. Skyhold is where I may check all the lines I have cast out for bites.” Maori rubbed her temples again, pleading with her head to stop aching. “ _Ir abelas_ , my mind is spread thin. Two and a half years does not seem long enough to accomplish everything we need to get ahead of Solas. Less than that if things go _right._ ” And she was loathe to think that in the end, it might be all for nothing. 

“Have faith, Maordrid,” Dorian said, squeezing her elbow. “You know, in the time that I spent researching time magic with Alexius, we formulated many theories. Most relevant is the branching theory—that if one were to go back in time, you wouldn’t be, not really. You would essentially be hopping to another timeline entirely. Where everyone and everything would be just _slightly_ different versions of themselves.”

“So instead of taking a left to get to the inn, we took a right in another world?” she asked as they proceeded down a quiet alleyway.

“Precisely.”

“I do not know if I like the implications there. What would that mean?” 

“My point is that…if time _does_ work that way…well, you seem convinced—and maybe even Solas is—that the path is a set thing. You…might be able to draw a little comfort from the possibility that in this world, this version of Solas is the one that _will_ change.” She looked at Dorian’s profile for a long time after that, praying to nonexistent gods that he was right. “At the very least, let us hope that when he stands beaten at every turn, he will know when to yield.”

“A cornered wolf is not known to submit readily…or cleanly,” she said. 

“No, but he is a man, not a wolf. And unless he is secretly mad, men can usually be reasoned with,” Dorian said. She bit her tongue against an argument. She decided she would cling to that and hope that hoping didn’t backfire on her down the line.

Once back at their temporary base, she returned to her room and was disgustingly disappointed when Solas wasn’t there. There were so many questions she had floating around her head for him. Had she imagined him calling her a _sweet nightmare_ before she’d passed into blurry dreaming? Her heart fluttered at the implication there, then cursed at her scatterbrained thoughts.

Maori stashed the few small gifts she’d acquired while they were out, taking a deep, calming breath. _The sun sets and rises anew each day. Follow its example._

She checked herself in the warped mirror at the door, plucking at the unbound inky locks hanging at her chest and framing her pale face. Combined with the clothes, she hardly recognised herself. She looked…softer with the cosmetics Dorian had forced on her at the parfumerie. 

“See? Even you cannot deny it.” She started at Dorian’s sudden arrival, eyes landing on the Altus leaning against the wall by the doorway, smiling fondly. Her cheeks reddened.

“What,” she growled, unbuckling the transcript and hiding it in her bag where she placed an incendiary ward upon it. Clasping the satchel with her briar and herb to her waist harness, she turned to him, crossing her arms.

“I’m not saying anything. You know what I’m referring to. Let’s just say…you should probably have someone with you at all times tonight.” She raised a questioning brow at him when they exited the room.

“I can take care of myself,” she said. Dorian offered her his arm. 

“But then you wouldn’t enjoy yourself. You’d be on guard all night,” he said and he wasn’t wrong. “And I doubt you want to hang on the arm of Bull or that clingy professor. Varric is too preoccupied with his inanimate girlfriend…” She took his arm, making sure to dig her fingers in unpleasantly until he winced.

“Aw, are you offering yourself up, _ma leal’falon_?” she asked sweetly as they began walking again.

“Only until we are too sloshed to support one another,” he said. “I am not entirely looking forward to this, after all. But I will hear no end to it from Yin if I decide to skirt the show to hide out in a different tavern entirely.” She snorted.

“Funny, you almost sound domestic.” He rolled his eyes and the city bell began to ring, signalling the tenth bell. “And now we are late.”

“At least we will be fashionable doing so.” 

The Leaf and Lyre was located a quick walk from the Orlesian Alienage, which explained why it would be potentially ‘less’ racist as Elgalas had put it. She had never visited the place herself and furthermore had never thought Elgalas to be someone that would go into _any_ such place. Elgalas was strictly involved in matters of the Game for Solas while producing weapons and armour for a specific branch of his spy network. _The bartender knows her by name. Interesting_ , she thought as they arrived in an outer courtyard. The hushed hum of a large crowd issued from the wide open doors of the tavern while someone was plucking gently at a lute, which meant the performance was well under way. People were milling about outside as well, smoking pipes and drinking while they clamoured near the doors to listen. The smells of food wafted pleasantly above it all, bringing the warmth of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. Her stomach protested, both with apprehension and hunger. However, as they weaved farther into the crowd, Dorian’s hand found the top of hers and she realised just how tightly she’d been gripping his arm. His eyes stayed ahead searching the dim interior for their friends. 

It was pretty typical for a tavern, with the exception that it had multiple levels—similar to the Cup and Casque—though the floors here were all open to the commons that boasted a fine stage in its centre. Long red curtains framed either side, with a banner across the top depicting theatre, dance, music, and more, all painted in festive colours. Every table was taken as far as she could see. It didn’t take her long to spot the bald head of Solas and the rest of their large group sitting at a table between the bar and the left of the stage. Most attentions were focused on the current performance—a man that was decidedly not Eivuna. Everyone save for Solas and Cassandra were playing a round of Wicked Grace, with Cole actually getting help from Varric on how to play.

Her and Dorian remained unnoticed as they passed the final smelly bodies of excited attendees. Beyond the game, they were all completely engrossed in whatever it was Yin was yammering over the din. But suddenly the Inquisitor caught sight of Dorian, looked back down, then quickly looked back up, eyes narrowing when he saw her on his arm—then they widened in recognition.

“ _Maordrid?_ ” he said incredulously. The others turned and she faltered. Even Frederic had made an appearance, but she was glad to see him wholly engrossed in talking to Cassandra—the true dragonslayer in their midst. She fought the urge to look at Solas whose eyes she could feel burning trails down her person when he twisted in his chair. Her hands twitched involuntarily on Dorian’s forearm, earning a light squeeze from him before he released her. His absence left her unsure of what to do with her hands, flinching minutely when they decided to perch themselves on the back of Solas’ chair where his coat hung.

“We didn’t miss the performance, did we?” Dorian asked. 

“We were just making bets as to whether Maori was going to fall from the ceiling with the body of her latest victim,” Yin joked. 

“Or if you’d make it at all,” Varric added, raising his mug in greeting. As Dorian excused himself to get them both drinks, Solas pulled out a chair she hadn’t seen in the dark, inviting her to sit beside him. She finally looked at him once she’d sat, offering a wavering smile.

“Evening,” she greeted in a near croak.

“You look…” he started, brows raised, then hesitated, pursing his lips.

“Ravishing?” Dhrui supplied on his other side unhelpfully, earning a flat look from Solas whose ears drooped slightly. “I mean, she does!” The Dalish woman reached over the table past him and ran a hand through Maori’s hair. Maordrid laughed and smacked her hand away, then gratefully accepted a wooden tankard of mead from over Solas’ shoulder, offered by Dorian. He gave her a wink before taking his place between her and the Inquisitor to her right.

“How are you feeling?” Solas asked, leaning in close enough for her to hear his quiet voice. She might have looked at his face a little too long before answering, but he hadn’t stopped staring since he’d first laid eyes on her.

“Well enough to drink,” she said—though even she was uncertain—but took a sip from the mead anyway. He watched even that mundane action as though she were some fascinating new flavour of spirit. By light of the melting candles in the centre of the table, she caught sight of a tankard in his hands, still mostly full. “And you?” He looked down at his drink before answering.

“Considerably better now that you have arrived,” he said with a sigh. “I was beginning to question my decision to be here and might have left should you not have shown in the next few minutes.” She blushed.

“You aren’t obligated to stay here,” she said. Surprisingly, Solas took a sip from his cup.

“I was invited to share a drink with someone. I was hoping the offer still stood,” he said, setting it on the table. She eyed it for a moment, then considered her own.

“Well, it seems you still have one to finish. Or did your ‘someone’ take so long that you found another to partake with?” she drawled, feeling some of her fire beginning to return. His eyes seemed to darken in light of the candles, but she switched her attention before he could offer a response to Dhrui and Blackwall beside her. The former’s cards were currently folded on the table, but Blackwall still had his in hand and was trying to maintain his Wicked Grace face while Dhrui attempted to make him lose it. Maori flicked her ear with some magic, drawing her attention. “Losing, _isal’dirthelan?_ ” 

“She wouldn’t if she could remember the value of each suit,” Blackwall said, flipping a silver into the growing pool. 

“All I needed was for you to blink your eyes twice to tell me if two Serpents-two Songs beat Varric’s two Daggers-two Serpents!” she hissed.

“It’s every man for himself, you know that,” he said. 

“He told me it wasn’t and I lost,” she pouted.

“Your hand was likely better than Blackwall's,” Solas remarked. “An excellent bluff on his part.” Dhrui scoffed at him, glaring.

“ _You’re_ not even playing! If you knew that, you should have helped me!” she exclaimed, looking for something to throw at him but settling with a friendly shove.

“You have your own supply of cunning at hand, why should I bolster yours?” Solas returned coolly, righting himself smoothly. Dhrui leaned over on one elbow, dark red eyes burning with challenge in light of the candles as she met his amused gaze.

“Oh no you don’t! What did I say about teaching Solas betting games?” Blackwall chastised, pulling her back into her seat. Solas gave the barest smirk, sitting too straight in his own chair. He looked completely out of place in the slumping nature of the tavern. 

“It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t understand. Otherwise she’d teach Solas to get him to teach her _better_. You could kiss every sliver of wealth we have good bye if we were to unleash that duo unto the Inquisition,” Yin said, flipping a sovereign into the pile. Iron Bull swore and folded.

“Someone want to deal Teacup in?” the qunari asked, nodding to her.

“Are you kidding? You think that’s any better than letting Solas play!” Varric exclaimed. 

“You all give the elfy ones too much oompf,” Sera grunted from where she was slouched so far down in her chair that her hair was barely visible above her cards. Maori took a long draw from her cup, noticing Solas eyeing her again with consideration. 

“Their concern is not baseless, Sera,” Solas said, focusing his gaze languidly on the young rogue. That time, Maori gawked at him for the hint of cockiness in his voice. Sera blew her tongue at him, the bottom of her tankard appearing over the fanning of cards. Some of her spittle must have hit Frederic beside her, as he gave her a disgusted look before catching Maori’s eye, following it up with a broad smile. She could tell he wanted to say something, but talking across the table apparently didn’t appeal to him so he settled with a polite nod before diving headlong into another conversation with a flustered Seeker.

“Hey, you think that’s her? Eivuna?” Yin asked them, pointing subtly through the crowds at the bottom of the stage. An elven woman with fiery red hair down to her waist was being swarmed by men of all races, her silvery laughter heard even above the raucous voices. She wore a pretty blue cloak lined with white fennec fur and a green dress that brought out the colour of her hair. Strapped across her back was an eburnean lute with abalone shell accents.

“Do you mean the fat man drinking from the goat horn or…?” Dorian asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Gods, the _snark_ tonight!” Yin said, then laughed triumphantly as he won the pot while the other players protested cheating.

“This one has a firm grasp of the obvious,” Dorian said, patting Yin on the hand. Eivuna climbed onto the stage quietly and began setting up her area.

“Speaking of obvious, where’d Cole go? Wasn’t he just here playing the game?” Yin said, watching as the minstrel plucked and tuned her instrument. 

“He’s still here. In _spirit_ ,” Dhrui said, earning a groan from everyone listening save for Sera who snorted a laugh. “Oh, c’mon, that was a good one and you know it.” Eivuna began to speak to the tavern, her voice slicing through the noise like a glass blade, silver and clear. Maordrid sat impressed by the silence she commanded. 

“Learn from her, love,” she heard Dorian whisper to Yin.

“I have been travelling far and wide the last year, in search of more songs,” Eivuna said, lowering her voice once she had deemed the audience quiet enough. “Alas, my journey met its untimely demise with the wound in the sky that rendered the roads unsafe to travel. And though I have only a few songs for you, my beloved listeners, I took it as a sign for change. Tonight, instead of singing until dear Ortan closes the doors, I have a proposal for you.”

“Is it marriage?” a merry voice called out. Eivuna laughed pleasantly and shook her head, red hair twisting like flames with the motion.

“Come, Liam, we all know you are married to the cup in your hand,” she said, blue eyes twinkling. Laughter rippled through the crowd. “No, I have recently had something quite exciting and inspirational brought to my attention. Many youngsters have been approaching me with their own poems and songs, asking me to perform them. But I would like to offer them the chance to play on my stage—with my lute. I hope to usher in a new crowd of minstrels, with me as their sponsor.”

“How romantic,” Cassandra sighed. 

“Admirable,” Solas remarked. “Hopefully the audience is as kind as she is to the others.” Maordrid nodded, tilting her head back to slake her thirst. She felt a slight tug at the ends of her hair and shot a glance behind her at Solas. His eyes were on Eivuna, but the little smile was for her. 

“Until that time, I have a song I learned from my journey into Qarinus.” Eivuna strummed a chord that filled the tavern like sunlight parting through clouds. 

  


“ _He seems like the gods’ equal, that man,_

_whoever he is, who takes his seat so close_

_across from you, and listens raptly to_

_your lilting voice_

  


_And lovely laughter, which, as it wafts by,_

_sets the heart in my ribcage fluttering;_

_As soon as I glance at you a moment,_

_I cannot say a thing,_

  


_and my tongue stiffens into silence, thin_

_flames underneath my skin prickle and spark,_

_a rush of blood booms in my ears, and then_

_my eyes go dark,_

  


_and sweat pours coldly over me, and all_

_my body shakes, suddenly sallower_

_than summer grass, and death, I fear and feel,_

_is very near._

  


The minstrel finished singing but played _da capo_ without the words. The song itself wasn’t anything she had ever heard and the music seemed written by the woman herself. If its origins were from Tevinter, she would never admit to being moved by its lyrics. Dhrui’s chin was resting her fists, eyes wide as they would go as she stared moonstruck up at the muse. She smiled at Blackwall’s hand resting lovingly between Dhrui’s shoulderblades.

There was a standing ovation nearly before Eivuna played the final note. The crowd clearly worshipped their red-haired minstrel. Yin was the only other elf she had seen in these days that attracted true adulation. When she looked at him, she was pleased to see him smiling peacefully at the performer with his hand in Dorian’s lap. 

The next song was just as lovely, but much longer. The melody was golden and more uplifting than the last. She watched with amusement as multiple couples got up and danced slowly in the shadows beyond the stage. 

  


_“…hitching up your chariot: lovely sparrows_

_drew you quickly over the dark earth, whirling_

_on fine beating wings from the heights of heaven_

_down through the sky…”_

  


The smell of spices filled her nose suddenly and she turned to see a surly dwarf placing two loaves of bread on their table with a dish of butter. She immediately pulled one to her and sliced off the end, spreading a layer of fresh butter across it. Her stomach was growling incessantly now and she knew Solas heard it judging by his surprised chuckle. She bit into her bread with a glare his direction, but then turned her attention back to the minstrel as she finished up the second song. The dwarf from before walked up to the stage and passed a silver goblet up to the red-haired elf who accepted it graciously during the round of applause.

“Gods, she is good,” Yin said while she spoke to the crowds once again. “It’d almost be worth it to invite her to Skyhold.”

“Yeah, but Bull would absolutely despoil her. Redhead, remember?” Varric said with a grin at the qunari whose eyes hadn’t moved from the bard. That made even Dorian laugh.

“Hey, I could be gentle for a goddess like her,” Bull said, draining his mug in one go. “Though, who knows, she might be wild in bed.” As a few of them speculated on the poor woman’s sexual proclivities, Dorian reached out and grabbed her knee.

“Do get us some wine? I need to be drunker for any more of this heartfelt stuff,” he said. With a nod, Maordrid emptied her own mead quickly and got to her feet. She snaked her way through the maze of people standing without seats until she popped out by the bar. The dwarf bustling about behind the counter noticed her immediately despite the mass of men all hollering, but was too busy passing out drinks. She gave him a nod and settled to wait until his hands were free.

Of course, nothing could go smoothly for her. “What’s this, another pretty elf from the woodwork?” a gruff voice asked, thickened by drink. Maordrid hid her grin. Drunkards she could deal with. “’Aven’t seen ye around this place, dove.” The dwarf, Ortan, she thought his name was, walked up to the bar.

“I’ll take two Black Blood Vintages, if you have it,” she said, flipping him a coin. The drunk shuffled closer with a low laugh.

“Maker, get a look at ‘er Cristoff! Slap a red wig on her and we got ourselves…well, close enough to Eiv!” The man tossed his head back to laugh, highly amused with himself. Another man sidled up on her other side—she leaned against the counter, eyes forward.

“Oi, nothin’ like Eiv. This un’s eyes are all slanted!” The outline of a finger wandered toward her left eye. She leaned expertly out of the way, reaching for the two wine goblets as Ortan returned with them. “All them Alienage elves have those _wide_ doe eyes. Ooh, mebbe she’s one o’ those wild ones?” Maordrid took a sip, relishing the smoky flavour of the Black Blood as it permeated her tastebuds. 

“Right? I’m game. It’s somethin’ different—” the man leaned in, far too close for her liking that she could smell his sour breath, “—I wonder if her slit is sideways.” She cracked her neck, setting her cup down slowly. Behind them, she heard a transition happening. The aspiring poets were getting their turn with Eivuna’s lute so soon. 

“Charming,” she said, drinking again, then stepped backward to seek a new position along the bar. The two men groaned their displeasure as she found another open spot. The first drunkard followed, predictably. Her fingers reached into a pouch at her waist, seeking out a little vial of concentrated sleeping potion. It would knock him out long enough that he wouldn’t have another chance to bother any other women for the night. She’d consider a more lethal poison if he decided to get handsy.

“C’mon, little thing, don’t walk away!” the man said with a leer, stumbling into her. She thrust a hand out and merely had to shove with her fingertips to keep him away, he was so sloshed. “I’ll bet you came here same reason any o’ the other elf maids do—they don’t care to be minstrels. No one can top Eiv! The only thing they top are our cocks!” His hand closed around her shoulder in an iron grip. _Bold._ “Try walkin’ away now, bird.” Her mouth opened as she went to dare him to try to stop her, but was interrupted.

“I believe birds fly. And even if she were a bird, she would likely fly far away from you,” said a voice like steel wrapped in velvet. Her unsavoury company _pffted_ loudly, spittle flying onto the bar and narrowly missing her drink. She took a sip, celebrating the small victory.

“In swoops the white knight’s cock sheath, huh? Maker knows elves can’t be knights themselves,” the man guffawed obnoxiously, but thankfully released her in favour of gesticulating at the newcomer. “Oh no, lemme guess—you’re ploughin’ this one. Or at least tryin’ to. No woman is gonna go for that pate of yers. Get in line, elf, or I’ll perform an Exalted March on your arse.” Maordrid straightened, setting her drink down loudly and finally turned to the human, eyes sharpening into blades.

“Have you _ever_ had a woman willingly come to you with this approach?” she demanded, taking the man off guard. “Have you ever asked nicely without leering? Stars forbid trying to start a civil conversation!” Confusion then fury played hideously across the man’s pock-marked face. She planted a finger in the stained shirt at his broad shoulder, standing up on the tips of her toes. “One of these days you are going to get beaten badly by someone a lot less patient than me. You may die of your wounds—perhaps from something as sorry as a ruptured spleen. You’re a sad, angry man that just wants  something to go right in your self-wrought, miserable existence.” She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and forcibly sat him down on the stool that had been quickly vacated behind him. His spit-flecked lips moved soundlessly as he floundered for something to say in his drunkenness. _Where’s Cole when you need him?_ “What’s your name?”

“J-Jean Cuvier—what the _fffuck_ — _?_ ” he stammered.

“Jean, _a pleasure to meet you,_ ” she said, gripping his hand as old Phaestus had once taught her—a blacksmith’s grip that made him wince. “Now, ask me what my name is.” The man’s watery, fear-filled eyes flicked to the figure behind her and then back when she snapped her fingers before his eyes.

“W-What’s yer name?” he asked.

“Jean Cuvier, I am Naèv. Are you here for the music?” she asked. He nodded dumbly. “Wonderful! I myself love the lute—”

“I…like the way it sounds,” he mumbled, looking blearily down at his calloused hands. 

“Would you like to take a table and listen together?” she asked. He looked up at her, red-rimmed eyes filled with shame and nodded. She reached past him with the vial of concentrate hidden in her palm and grabbed his tankard sitting abandoned on the counter. “Good, Jean. How about a drink first? And some bread to keep us content? Perhaps we may find dinner after the show.” She tipped the powder into the cup as she covered the top of it with her hand, passing it to him. 

“I’ll…I’ll buy a glass of wine fer ya, Lady Naèv,” he said, accepting his drink. 

“That would be ever so sweet of you, Jean, thank you,” she said, softening her voice as he drank. “See, is this not more enjoyable? Even if we never see each other again after tonight, it was pleasant. No fighting, no cutting words, no anger?”

“I’d…be sad…if we never saw ‘ch other again,” he said, the concentrate already working its magic. She reached out to him and eased him up against the counter.

“Perhaps we will, Jean,” she said, placing her hand against the side of his head as one would a child. Jean smiled sleepily and closed his eyes, settling onto his forearm. Her relief came out as a puff of breath as she backed down onto the stool behind her, reaching for the Black Blood before facing the bar. A throat cleared politely to her right, drawing her gaze briefly.

“Hello,” she said to the handsome bald elf, raising the goblet to her lips.

“Hello,” he returned with a smile that reached his beryl-blue eyes. “May I introduce myself? My name is Solas.” She offered him her hand with a delicate smile of her own.

“A pleasure, Solas. I am Naèv…although I prefer Maordrid these days. Maori, to my friends,” she said as he shook her hand. His eyes widened. 

“ _Naèv,_ ” he repeated, lyrical and golden on his tongue as he released her hand slowly. “The pleasure is mine. That is a lovely name. I am honoured to know both.” He smiled, then looked past her at Jean snoring away into his elbow. “Watching you unravel that man’s world with your clever tongue was…thrilling.” She glanced down at the two goblets and decided Dorian could get his own. She offered one to Solas who took it, brushing her fingers as he did. Silly as it was, she was surprised he did not draw electricity from her fingertips.

“I am surprised you came for a drink tonight,” she said as they clinked glasses and drank in unison. In the dim light, she could see a faint flush across his cheeks. He set his down on the counter with a strange look on his face, lips sitting somewhere between a frown and a crooked smirk.

“I do not think even your alternative choice of drinking partners would have turned down a chance to bask in your company.” It took her a moment before she realised to _whom_ he was referring. A comment made on a drunken whim. And now he was openly bringing it back up. She wondered just how much the alcohol was affecting Solas for him to risk mentioning it again. Or that he cared to.

“You make it tempting to test out that theory,” she said, raising her goblet with a coquettish expression. He turned slowly on his stool, nearly touching her thighs with his knees as he peered up at her, eyes catching the light. Another of Eivuna’s invitees climbed onto the stage and began playing a song she was pretty sure had been stolen from Maryden. She leaned in close to the side of Solas’ head to enunciate each word that followed, “But, I desire _your_ company above anyone else in this world.” Maori sat back on her own stool, watching him carefully. He gave her a polite smile and looked shyly into his cup, lips stained with the dark wine.

“Even if said company has been undeservedly cruel to you?” The way he looked at her next was some place between hopeful and worried as he spoke.

“I may have been impaired at the time, but I meant it when I said I forgave you,” she said, tapping his knee with a finger made bolder every second by the wine. “Or did you think I would not remember my own promises?” His quiet sigh of relief did not escape her hearing, even over the music.

“Again, you have proved me wrong,” he said, “and I suppose I should be used to the constant surprises you throw at me.” She clocked her head to the side, noting the slight slur of his tongue now. To cover up her own surprise, she lifted her stool to scoot it slightly closer to his.

“I share the sentiment. I have travelled many places and never expected to find someone as thoughtful, caring, and possessive of profound wisdoms such as you in the midst of chaos,” she said, indulging in more wine. He stared at her as if she’d just proclaimed _herself_ a god. She continued playfully, “I enjoy the challenges you present me with as well.” Another smirk crept across his lips as he lifted his drink, holding her gaze. After setting it down, Solas leaned over on his seat, sliding an arm behind her on the counter. 

“If that is true, I have a proposal,” he said, voice like melting honey. The heat that rose up her neck and along her scalp was definitely from the burn of the wine. _Definitely._

“Oh?” she managed.

“The final favour?” he whispered, lips nearly grazing her ear. No part of him touched her, though he seemed to curl around her like a shadow. She resisted the urge to shudder.

“Does this have a chance of ending disastrously?” she mused, wetting her lips with a flick of her tongue. She lifted her goblet to her mouth, eyes moving to look into his. Solas tracked her, pupils almost eclipsing his ghostly irises.

“Like the last one? It would depend on your versatility, I think,” he said, “I would like you to play the lute—and sing.” Her heart dropped. She swallowed the Black Blood with forced calm.

“I do not sing,” she said, looking at him. He took her right hand with his, holding it between them. His fingers ran across the translucent red appendage she’d forgotten all about, as if to say _you’ve no excuse now_. 

“Tonight…you do,” he said, releasing her hand. Somehow, he made the authority in his tone sound lighthearted, though it dripped like molten steel into her belly where it began to pool. That was…new. “You would not go back on your word, would you? That would be a surprise, albeit a disappointing one.” A fire licked up her insides from the pool as she tilted her head to where just a bare movement of her lips would touch his. He didn’t move, save for his eyes dropping to rest on her mouth. She could almost taste the wine on his breath. Instead, she raised her goblet between them, breaking them apart. Her skin crawled with exhilaration.

“Well. Prepare to be disappointed by my performance,” she said then swallowed the rest of her wine and slid from her stool, leaving him still leaning into where she’d just been. The pads of her fingers were beading with sweat as she approached the stage, ignoring the questioning looks from the Inquisition group as she went. Eivuna was sitting on the stairs near the stage, watching each performer with delight. The elf tore her gaze away when she approached.

“ _Aneth ara,_ sister,” Eivuna said. Maordrid forced an amiable expression onto her face and bowed to her. “Do you wish to play tonight?” 

“I do,” Maori said. The minstrel smiled and nodded graciously.

“Paiwen should be finishing soon. What will you be playing?” Eivuna asked, crossing her dainty hands over her knees.

“An old song gleaned from the Fade,” she said. That was all she could think of on the spot. But…it would do. 

“Ah, most fascinating. I wish I could visit there. The songs one could compose from within,” the woman said with surprising ardour. Rare to find someone without fear of the Fade. Maordrid leaned against the stage and peered back at the table where her companions were. Solas had rejoined the group and seemed to be under interrogation, judging by the inquisitive expressions being shot her way. Sad applause like a scant rainfall spread across the tavern. A hand patted the back of her own. “Don’t fret, sister. I sense a greatness in you.” Eivuna smiled and gestured up the stairs. Maordrid took the steps, heart throbbing in her throat. She’d never performed before. Ever. Like heights frightened some people, she feared the focus of crowds. Her hands shook and she cursed the wine for making it hard to control. She clutched her cloak to wipe away the sweat again and glared out in the direction of her party even though the blinding light shielded them from her gaze. The tavern was still noisy, which helped some—their attention was not yet on her. They were getting drinks, food. She unclasped her cloak and hung it over the back of the chair. A warm current of air brushed her bare shoulders, almost startling her enough to jump. Worse, it was _hot_ on the stage. Clumsy fingers fought with the clasps at her vest, freeing them one by one and praying to no one in particular that the tie of her shirt held. Somewhat liberated, she forced herself to steel her nerves and focused on Eivuna’s beautiful instrument, anchoring herself to it as she took it into her hands like a fragile bird. She sat before her legs could wobble out from underneath her and took a deep breath, plucking chords quietly for the song she was about to play, turning the pegs to tune it to the proper key. She closed her eyes, hearing the melody, the words, the pitches, and rhythm she would need to _somehow_ stitch altogether without practise. _The things I do for him._ _I am drinking myself into the Void itself after this._

She cleared her throat and squinted out at the house that had fallen silent with the help of Eivuna.

“I-I am going to play an…old song. It hails from a time and origin lost to us.” She began plucking the introduction, fixing her gaze to her tingling fingers. The red appendage moved perfectly to her demands, which…of all things, gave her a boost of confidence. She turned her face back to the house with a small smile and sang:

_“[These scars long have yearned for your tender caress.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=823yuWz0lto)_

_To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own_

_Rend my heart open, then your love profess._

_A winding weaving fate to which we both atone_

  


_You flee my dream come the morning_

_Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet_

_To dream of ravens locks entwisted, stormy_

_Of silver eyes, glistening as you weep—”_

  


One of her fingers slipped loose from a chord, but didn’t create any discord. Her breath caught nervously as she frantically recovered. Her stomach flipped for the next stanza and yet it was what brought her out of the seat. She continued playing, stepping along the edge of the stage where she swept her gaze across the crowd.

“ _The Wolf I will follow into the storm._

_To find your heart, its passion displaced_

_By ire ever growing, hardening into stone._

_Amidst the cold to hold you in a heated embrace—”_

  


She heard longing sighs across the house—both above and below her. Her eyes found Solas momentarily, sitting with his hand outstretched on the table, eyes transfixed on her. The corner of her mouth quirked up as she teased him with her gaze, moving onto another face before she could lose her focus—

  


_“You flee my dream come the morning._

_Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet_

_To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy_

_Of silver eyes, glistening as you weep_

  


She felt an oncoming weakness in her throat—a small crack at the end of _weep_ —and knew it was because her vocal cords were reacting to the alien demand put upon them. With a subtle weaving of magic, she wrapped it around her her throat like a scarf of silk that strengthened and softened the edges of her voice. 

  


“ _I know not if fate would have us live as one._

_Or if by love’s blind chance we’ve been bound_

_The spell I whispered, when it all began—_

_Did it forge a love we might never have found?_

  
  


_You flee my dream come the morning._

_Your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet_

_To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy_

_Of silver eyes, glistening as you weep…”_

  


Maori nearly wept herself with sheer relief that the singing was over and had to pace herself with the remaining notes. Damn the song itself, she wanted out of there. She circled back to the centre of the stage, placing one foot in front of the other as her fingers played the final notes. They faded delicately into the quiet tavern and for a moment, she froze in a panic when it remained that way. Her own calm broke as she hurried to set the lute down—nearly toppling it in her haste as she snatched up her things—and didn’t stop even when the tavern finally burst into a smattering of applause and whistles. She was glad there wasn’t a standing ovation to make the escape more hectic. Maordrid darted through the crowd straight to the bar where Ortan was grinning at her with his arms crossed.

“Arlathan’s Fire if you have it, please,” she demanded, a trickle of sweat sliding down her back. He nodded and walked away, returning swiftly with a frosted metal cup. 

“On the house,” he said when she tried to pay him. “I didn’t realise you were that friend of Hope’s. She’s mentioned you a few times, but her description was unmistakable. Didn’t know you were bard though.” She swallowed a gulp of the sour, burning liquid before answering.

“I’m not,” she said and left a royal on the counter anyway. As soon as she turned, she saw Yin leaning against the counter with a classic Yin expression. Varric was coming up right behind him wearing a shit eating grin.

“If no one proposes to you after that stunt, I just might,” he said. “What demon possessed you to go up there? Don’t tell me you were taken by a wild spell of inspiration.” She shook her head.

“A bald, blue-eyed demon,” she said. Yin threw his head back to belt out a hearty laugh. “And before you take me for a romantic—don’t. I was adhering to Eivuna’s theme of…love and sappy songs.”

“I actually believe you,” he said, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “For an impromptu performance, it wasn’t terrible. Not bard material, but it _is_ perfect for our merry band of travellers.”

“You could not pay me to sing again,” she said, drinking.

“No, but I could cajole Solas into giving up the secret—” She silenced him with a gag of air that he dispelled with a giggle.

“For all the crap performances I’ve seen, _I_ was impressed. Though I didn’t see any flowers blooming,” Varric said.

“Metaphorically, my friend, _a lot_ of flowers were probably doing a lot more than blooming in the audience,” Yin said, earning a nervous laugh from her. She noticed a few elves and dwarves gathering nearby and realised all of their eyes were on her as a few of them murmured amongst themselves. 

“If Eivuna is done performing, I would rather not linger here longer than necessary,” she said to him. “Once they learn the Inquisitor is here—” He wasn’t fooled.

“What makes you think I don’t like the attention? Especially if I have you on my arm,” he said, waggling his black brows.

“Fine, I will take Dorian and Varric to a shadier place and we shall proceed to drink ourselves silly,” she retorted. Yin’s eyes widened in horror.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he gasped. She shrugged and eyed a sandy-haired elf attempting to sidle up to her. It was then that the mage in mention came sauntering up to Yin.

“Did I hear something about ditching this saccharine show for a real tavern?” Dorian asked, throwing his arm over the Inquisitor’s shoulders. Maordrid raised her eyebrow at Yin, tapping her foot.

“ _Fine_ ,” Yin said, pulling from Dorian’s grasp to retrieve the others. She was drinking her Fire when Solas appeared, somehow passing between the bodies without disturbing anyone. She drained her drink and slipped through the accumulating crowd of ogling men—and women—that all lurched forward at her after Yin left. She saw a flash of teeth, but it was quickly swallowed as she disappeared—a perk of her height.

Maordrid burst out of the doors, taking her first deep breath since entering that trap. It was pitch black out. Mere seconds later, the doors swung open behind her, freeing a slew of noises including the Antivan trills, the Tevinter and Nevarran drawls, the stark Fereldens, a lively Orlesian, and the others as they talked loudly and excitedly about the performances. It was then that her stomach acted up, rolling like a wave. She was forced to steady herself against a leafless maple, pressing a hand to her mouth and middle. 

“Uh-oh, someone has post-stage fright?” she heard Dhrui snicker behind her. A bubbly hiccup slipped past her lips and she heard Blackwall snort a laugh.

“Had a feeling the reason she went up there was on a drunken dare,” the Warden said. Maori raised her head to see Dorian and Yin wandering—somewhat unsteadily—off without her. Cassandra was hauling ass out of there, tailed by a still-chattering Frederic, and Bull was standing to the side with the other rogues hollering over to Blackwall and Dhrui. She had spotted Cole still sitting behind at the stage before her flight. That left Solas…

“—two wanna join us for some more drinks?” Dhrui was saying to someone behind her. Maori finally straightened enough to see Solas had joined them, hands clasped behind his back.

“Ah…go on ahead,” Maori told them. “I will not be long.” Dhrui looked about to protest, but one touch at her waist from Blackwall had her faltering. The girl swooped in and pressed a chaste kiss to her temple.

_“’Til later, my salty siren!_ And Solas, don’t let her go chasing wolves into storms!” Dhrui giggled, then dashed away, tugging the Warden back to the other group. 

“Impatient, the lot of them,” Maordrid muttered, then turned to Solas. “I did not want to go to another one anyway. I am going to find a bottle at the Herring. Join me?” 

“Of course,” he said, falling in step with her. As they walked in silence, her ears twitched when she caught Solas humming her song and wondered if he meant to be doing it. For a while, that was all there was between them and she was pretty sure neither of them actually knew where they were going. Then they came upon a moonlit plaza with a large square pool in its centre upon which glowing dawn lotuses floated. She halted for a moment to stare a little drunkenly at the flowers, trying to think of something to say.

“You were stun—” Solas began but was immediately cut off by a gravelly, quite unfriendly voice.

“What business do two knife ears have being this far from the alienage…at _this_ time of night?” Solas’ hand immediately went to her shoulder as he turned defensively to face the Chevalier emerging from a sidestreet with a lantern.

_“Sharp of mind enough to run?”_ she whispered to him. 

_“I do not think we have a choice,”_ he murmured. Magic sparked at her fingertips and Solas hissed, but it was too late.

“Mages!” the Chevalier gasped, unsheathing his sword with a rasp.

_“Fenedhis lasa_ , Maori. Follow me!” Solas said, grabbing her wrist.

__

__

They fled. Solas had longer legs than her, therefore keeping up—while trying to maintain her balance—was impossible. With the Chevalier shouting for reinforcements behind them, Solas didn’t pause when her wrist slipped from his grasp. Even so, buildings flew past them, cloaks flapping and stomach contents jostling. Somehow, she surpassed him. Solas was fast, but she was more nimble, taking corners with ease while he cursed at her abrupt turns, attempting to follow. 

Granted, being impaired, she had _no_ idea where she was going. They could have been running the same square for all she knew. She forgot what they were running from when they flew over a hedgerow and he was waiting on the other side when she took a tumble, attempting to reach out with a steadying hand, but she danced back to her feet bearing a sloppy grin. 

“Try to keep up!” she whispered. Solas chuckled with a _proceed_ gesture and she darted over the hedges, landing on the other side at a full sprint. He was close behind in seconds, the only sounds being her own quiet, measured breaths with his a distant echo of hers. They flew across a channel of water, Solas keeping up even as they somehow managed to hop across the wooden posts sticking out of it. He came close to grabbing her arm twice, failing when laughter loosened his grip. Apparently, it was a chase.

And then there was the dead end. She ran to the very end anyway, lacking some of her prior enthusiasm to get away from him—she hadn’t in the first place. Even so, the buildings were absent of windows or ledges to climb and there were no crates or scaffolding to jump onto. But maybe if she got a running start—

“This has been an interesting turn of event, but I believe the Chevaliers are still chasing us,” Solas called from the mouth of the alley. She turned slowly to face him.

“ _Interesting_ , since it seems like you abandoned fleeing in favour of chasing me,” she said, taking a step backward as he stepped forward into the alley. She cocked her head when she heard the distant sound of clattering armour and men shouting.

“You were saying?” he said, raising a brow and taking another step. Light, on the ball of his foot. “Where will you take us next?” In answer, she spun and bolted straight for the wall. She planted a foot against the adjacent wall, pushing off and just barely reaching the top with her hands. She heard a predatory laugh just below as she swung her leg over. Fingers snagged in her cloak. She grinned, releasing it quickly from her shoulders before he could get a better grip and threw herself over the other side. She heard him curse as she hit the ground running. At the other end of this alley, a street lamp illuminated the smooth grey stone. 

She turned, waiting for him to make the jump…but he never came. She grew a little worried since she could still hear the Chevaliers not too far off. Nightlife continued south of her—trickling water in the canals nearby to her west. The Ivory Herring might have been to the north, so she committed to taking the northernmost street at a jog, still keeping a wary eye out for Solas. Being alone and drunk was not appealing, especially when her senses began playing tricks on her. A flicker of lantern light had her dashing paranoid down a darkened street lined with rotting crates behind a bakery. As she popped out the other side, she collided with something hard enough that it sent her skidding to the ground and jarred her shoulder hard enough that she felt it through the haze of alcohol. There was a familiar groan before a foot twitched into the side of her head.

“I was beginning to miss you,” she laughed, extricating herself from his long legs. 

“You certainly did not miss,” he said as they clambered back to their feet. He had a small abrasion on his forehead, but was otherwise smiling. “And look, we’re here.” Miraculously. He pointed above the red-tiled roof where the alabaster of the Ivory Herring shone proudly against the night sky. 

“Best get inside before they find us,” she said as they rounded the buildings to reach the blue door. All of the lamps inside were extinguished, which likely meant the entire place was asleep. “Think the others are here? I was hoping for one last drink.” He stopped her from going any farther as he disappeared into the shadows of the common room. There was a dim flash of greenish light and then he emerged seconds later with a bottle in his hand.

“I did not see a light in the window,” Solas said, motioning toward the stairs with his head, features shrouded in darkness. She couldn’t tell if she was excited, nervous, or disappointed coming back before everyone else. He waited for her to walk ahead of him though when she did, he followed close behind. Once inside the room, Solas lit only one light, setting the bottle of wine down on Dhrui’s bed while simultaneously sweeping his cloak from his shoulders in a graceful motion. He undid her own from its place at his belt and hesitated as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He set it down on his, fingers running through the fur lining its hood before he removed his coat, leaving him in his fine tunic and leggings. _Criminally beautiful,_ she thought, admiring the way his high collar framed his neck and accentuated his jawline. Solas sat facing her, taking the bottle into his hands. She joined him, but sat across on Dhrui’s bed, removing her cropped vest. She’d nearly forgotten about her wide collar until Solas’ eyes alighted on her bared shoulders while he fiddled with the wax seal on the bottle.

“Pity we were interrupted so early on,” he said, finally uncorking the wine with a gentle spell. “I would have liked to share another drink with you there.” Solas tipped the bottle back and drank, exposing his neck. She wanted to run her fingers along it, but took the bottle instead when it was offered. 

“And I did not feel like dealing with the crowd,” she laughed. “And then it seemed we could not stop running.”

“I believe at some point it became less a necessity and more of a choice,” he said with a small smile. “Frustratingly inconvenient, as I never got the chance to tell you what I thought of your performance.” She laughed and drank deeply of the sweet liquid before answering. A white wine. She preferred reds. Everything else—save for whisky—served the express purpose of getting one inebriated. A petty opinion she would keep to herself.

She passed it back to him, rife with warmth.

“We stand uninterrupted for now. Pray tell, what words so desire to leap from that tongue of yours?” she asked. His eyes went dark as his long fingers turned the bottle in hand.

“I was far from disappointed. The experience was…surreal, in fact,” he said with a tiny smile. “It is a small wonder that your dreams are not swarming with spirits or demons asking for favours. I myself have been mulling over ways to tempt you into more agreements.”

“Tempt me?” she asked, standing. Her head swam slightly, like water in a bilge. Even Solas swayed a bit as he adjusted to look at her. “You’ve been tempting me for some time now. I stand on a precipice buffeted by winds.” She stepped forward, her knees touching his as she gently relinquished the bottle from his hands. 

“I see. Am I in this vision? Behind you? At the bottom of the precipice?” Solas asked, watching her drink. 

“You are the wind,” she answered. He reached out as if to take the bottle, but his hand came to rest at her waist instead, drawing her between his legs. Her blood rushed hot as his fingers undid one belt, then her harness with the satchel that she caught. “Pushing, pulling,” she rambled on. 

“Yet, I am the one caught in your storm,” he murmured, running the fingers of his other hand up the outside of her thigh, slow yet devouring of every dip and curve as though she might vanish any moment. She gently took his hand in hers, jerking her head to the side while setting the bottle down. 

“Come, _emma syl_.” Helping him to his feet, she guided him to the window where she pushed the pane open wide enough to slip through.

“We are going somewhere again?” he mused, watching her remove her shoes, then fed the strap of her satchel between her teeth. She twisted through the opening and stood on the ledge outside, reaching back in, opening her hands for him. Solas looked askance at her, but followed suit, pausing halfway only when his pale gaze fell to the deadly drop just past her feet. Her fingers brushing along the line of his jaw had him looking back at her, then at the safe, slanting roof where her foot was resting. A relieved expression passed over his wine-loosened features, then he was climbing the rest of the way out. She moved to the roof to make room, taking both of his hands when he was out to help him up. He was much less coordinated after so much drinking—and so was she—but together they counterbalanced one another. 

The roof slanted up, then levelled out at the top where a banister with carved herrings stood. Once they’d made it, she gestured beyond their vantage point, smiling when he let out a small gasp. The city glittered with thousands of festive colours against the solid silver that the Miroir de la Mère was reflecting by light of Satina. She pulled Solas to sit across from her on the banister, packing her briar.

“Much better than the tavern or the tiny room, yes?” she asked, placing the stem between her teeth. When she looked up at him, it nearly fell out of her mouth with the way he was gazing at her. Like a sailor would the stars after a storm. _Hopeful_ , and longing. In that moment she could feel her pulse just beneath her jaw and Eivuna’s song played faintly in her head. _He seems like the gods’ equal, that man, whoever he is, who takes his seat so close across from you—_ he leaned over, extending a single finger with a dancing flame that he tipped into the bowl, still maintaining eye contact. _As soon as I glance at you a moment, I cannot say a thing, and my tongue stiffens into silence—_ she smiled around her pipe, then inhaled deeply, relishing the spicy taste of the Orlesian herb. As she exhaled, Solas relinquished it gently from her grip— _thin flames underneath my skin prickle and spark, a rush of blood booms in my ears…_

His lilting voice broke the spell, “I see how you were able sleep up here.” Solas lifted the briar to his lips, casting his eyes to the skies. “The stars are not as bright in the city, but there is a beauty to it all.” She smiled and scooted forward to return the favour with her own flame. His eyes lidded against the small brightness, and when he inhaled, he grasped her chin ever so delicately and pressed his forehead to hers as the smoke fell from his lips across her own. She hummed, delighting in the warmth of their recent indulgences and that which Solas’ touch brought to her entire body. “They remind me of your song,” he murmured, dropping his hand onto her knee. 

“ _To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own,”_ she sang softly. He sighed peacefully, eyes sliding shut.

“If this proves to be a dream…”

“I won’t flee come morning,” she laughed. Solas’ eyes peeked open and her breath hitched as his lips brushed hers like a drunken moth's wings. She breathed him in, those spices and pine with a hint of wine. Solas leaned in farther, warm nose pressing against her cheek as he teased their lips together. Her lashes tickled his as she tilted her head, parting her lips for his, for more. The sigh that escaped her was heavier than the kiss itself. But Solas' hand at her chin had her waking up and pulling back, startling them both. She swallowed past the lump in her throat—everything went terribly cold as though the heat had never existed. With a tight blink, she cursed herself inwardly. “We should wait—with the wine—and—" she cut off, scrambling for words before sighing again and looking at him remorsefully. "It's been so long. It would...it would mean a lot more if we could both remember it.” A part of her was terrified that she had crossed the point of no return. That Solas would pull back like she had and the chance would be lost forever. But she knew this was right—the poison in their blood was driving them to act completely different than they would in true lucidity. A lost kiss was of inconsequential worth to her than his invaluable trust and the bond they had built up over the last several months.

“You are right,” he breathed after a very painful moment. All of his prior ardour seemed to dissipate, however, he did not withdraw. He cast his eyes between them, brow knit with that familiar tension. “Forgive me, it was impuls—this is not what—” She cut him off, brushing her thumb along the seam of his lips out of selfishness. _Yes_ , she knew it was unwise but she didn’t need to hear it from him again. Though, the abrupt determination on his face was enough to throw her into a spiral of confusion. "Tomorrow," he suddenly said and the tone in his voice made her stomach drop. He spoke with the finality of a man headed to the gallows.

“Solas, I—” It was his turn to cut her off, resting a hand against her cheek. She met his eyes, lips curving downward. 

"Tomorrow," he repeated softer, dropping his hand. "We should rest." She managed a puzzled nod and watched blearily as he tamped out the pipe and returned it to its pouch for her. After, he offered his hand with a small smile. Hesitantly, she took it and he simply helped her from the banister, then down the rest of the roof as she had done for him earlier with nary another word. She did not think she could have managed it anyway. 

The two of them clambered tiredly back inside and by that time, she was fading quickly. She’d enough wakefulness to exchange her wretched shirt for a more comfortable one before finally climbing beneath the covers, vaguely aware of Solas doing the same. She fled into the Fade before her head hit the pillow.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> [ **ma leal’falon** ]: my shiny friend  
> [ **isal'dirthelan** ]: hungry speaker (essentially 'talkative one')  
> [ **emma syl** ]: my wind  
>  Credit for both song lyrics goes to the ancient Greek poetess Sappho for Eivuna's songs and Marcin Przybyłowicz who wrote the Wolven Storm from the Witcher 3 (also, I adjusted a word or two in the Wolven Storm to fit Solas/Maori >.>)
> 
>  
> 
> Look, I just really love the idea of Solas partaking in wizardly pipe smoking. All the wisest and cleverest ones do it, okay. Merlin and Gandalf off the top of my head. _Hnng_
> 
> Bonus:  
> Solas says: Drink responsibly, friends. :)  
> Maori: Oh, like we did? :)  
> Solas: _You're_ the one who cut me off without hearing what I was going to say—oh, for—here we go—  
>  *arguing continues off camera*
> 
> {This chapter made me a wreck.}


	88. Rose Coloured Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian+Yin scene inspired by David Gaider's "Dorian's idea of a good date" tweet

“ _Really_ , though, I dunno how we’re gon get back to the inn like this,” Yin slurred, his accent likely too thick for Dorian to understand. The other man giggled. 

“Perhaps we won’t! Is that truly the worst thing? Simply don’t wander off and we’ll be _fine_ ,” he said, downing a shot of…something. The Tevinter had a _much_ higher tolerance to alcohol than he did. Somehow. It hurt his pride a little.

“Speaking of pride, where…where is him?” he asked, looking around the shack. Or maybe it was an angler’s storeroom? It smelled of fish oil and sailors. Same thing. 

“Who?” Dorian asked flippantly. 

“Bald and…” Yin flicked his jawline. “Swore he was behind us.”

“Ah, yes, the hobo. He ran off after Maori.” Dorian smirked. 

“About time! Oh, it’s like her song! Chasing wolves or summat. But hang on, we had an entire wolf pack ourselves and they’re all gone!” 

“No idea, amatus. And frankly, I do not care.” Yin laughed to himself and drank some more. 

“Gods, this is honestly worse than my own mix. Here, c’mere, taste it.” He reached out and grabbed behind Dorian’s head and attempted to kiss him open-mouthed. Dorian pushed him away with an embarrassed chuckle.

“Hoy! You two, get that filth out of my sight!” Yin immediately straightened and turned slowly in his chair to see a very large man—nearly the size of Bull—standing just out of arm’s reach.

“Pardon? Filth? I’ll have you know I am freshly bathed,” Yin said, then leaned forward to sniff the man. “Oof. This place smells better than you do. What do you do? Chew the grit off the floor and chase it down with fish guts?” 

“Yer little insults don’t have sway over me, elf,” the man growled. “Take your little cock juggler friend and get out of here.” 

“That’s a new one,” Dorian remarked, swilling his new drink behind Yin.

“Why should we? I’m a paying customer,” Yin said, ignoring him. The man growled, finally taking a step toward him. Yin got to his feet with a grin. 

“ _Amatus,_ ” Dorian said, but there was lack of warning in his voice. He sounded…excited. 

“None of us wanna see two men fondlin’ each other. ‘Specially a fucken Dalish savage and a Tevinter,” the man threatened. 

“Savage?” Yin sputtered, then gestured at himself. “Do you see what I’m wearing? I actually _do_ put effort into looking nice.”

“Last warning,” the sailor said. Yin sighed and turned to Dorian with false resignation. He reached out and gripped the mage’s collar, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. When he turned around, the man was glaring with repulsion. “What? Jealous?” The man growled and took a swing at him, catching him in the chin and knocking him back into the bar. He was more stunned than hurt. He lifted a hand to his lip, tonguing it as he tasted blood. A second blow came, but this time he dodged under it, spinning—dangerously unsteady—and put himself behind his opponent. The man swung backward with his fist, right into his nose this time.

“Wake up, Yin,” Dorian called, sounding bored. 

“Why don’t you join in?” he asked, spitting blood and leaning out of the way of another swing. He brought his own fist up where it connected with…something that did utterly nothing to stop the enraged sailor. Bright lights exploded across his vision when the man smacked him with his open hand. He blinked rapidly, stumbling back and cursing the amount of alcohol he’d imbibed.

“I’m gonna fuck up that pretty face of yours, knife ear!” the man bellowed, and then promptly collapsed, revealing an unamused Dorian. Yin stared agape at the Altus, then jumped when a fist connected with Dorian’s mouth. A string of oaths in Tevene flew from him as he went stumbling into the bar. A laugh of disbelief escaped Yin, but quickly cut off as he was forced to duck beneath yet another hook. A full on fight broke out and it was _not_ in their favour. He was far too drunk to grasp his magic for a barrier, so blows rained down like meteors. He did manage to land a few good ones, breaking a nose and an eye socket on some unfortunate soul who’d the misfortune of getting in the way of his flailing fists. But then someone grabbed his arm and twisted it. Yin shouted in pain, trying desperately to pull at his magic for aid. It slipped away like a greased pig. Suddenly, there was a bright flash of green in the tavern and the fighting stopped. Yin realised his gauntlet had come loose and the Mark was shining like a diamond in the sun. He wiggled his fingers, making the light dance distractingly.

“Maker, is that the Herald?” someone cried. The person holding him released him as if burned and he fell to the floor in an ungainly heap. 

“No, just a shiny elf,” Dorian snapped as he kicked away a man recovering his legs. “Going to back out of the brawl now? Afraid of a little blasphemy?” Yin staggered to his feet, wiping his nose and smearing blood across his face. The fighting had ceased and a perfect semi-circle had formed around them.

“W-Well what do we do now?” someone asked. Yin surveyed them, then laughed, tossing his hands, the motion sending green prisms across the walls.

“Er, cards and a round of cheap ale?” he suggested. He wasn’t sure how much more his liver could take, but _damn_ he needed something to numb the pain in his face. There was uneasy murmuring, but then someone raised a mug.

“Ay, I’ll drink with the Herald,” the fellow said. Yin looked disbelieving over at Dorian who had a huge grin on his face. 

“I think you owe my friend an apology, first,” Yin said. One of the shorter men stepped forward and murmured something to the frozen bartender. The man jarred awake and then quickly fetched a bottle that he leaned over the counter to give to Dorian.

“This is a start to a beautiful friendship, I think,” Dorian said, pulling the cork with his teeth.

And that was how they tamed a herd of angry sailors into several games of cards until each man folded their cards and consciousness. Yin dozed off with Dorian snoring on his chest and a stranger’s arm around his shoulders without a care in the world. 

  


  


——hours earlier——

  


Dhrui watched the latest performer struggle through some musical rendition of an Andrastian prayer that translated quite poorly into a song. She was grateful to turn away when Solas materialised from the dark crowds, occupying Maori’s chair. Blackwall was off getting a drink without her, since she didn’t like alcohol. She glanced around, looking for her mentor but seeing her nowhere. 

“Where’d she go?” she asked him. He looked younger all of a sudden, his eyes holding less weight than they normally did. His gazed flickered to her briefly before trailing slowly back to the stage, lips thinning in a small smile. His fingers tapped on the tabletop beside his drink, an oddly roguish action for the normally-reserved mage. Was he drunk? She decided to follow his gaze and immediately spotted the short figure of Maordrid standing before Eivuna. Behind Dhrui, Yin immediately asked what she was doing. 

“Did you order a hit on someone, Solas?” Dorian joked. 

“Is she going to - _no_. Would she?” Yin gasped. 

“No way. I _told_ you she had a soft centre! Just like our Seeker!” Iron Bull guffawed, at which he abruptly cut off when Cassandra cuffed him soundly in the back of his horned head. Frederic looked like he’d reached peak infatuation levels, staring all moon-eyed like a halla at a sugar carrot. At that moment, Blackwall rejoined the table with Sera holding too many ales.

“Wait, wot, she friggin’ plays? Since when?” Sera piped up, practically falling over in her chair. Cole suddenly materialised in Solas’ vacated seat, wide-brimmed hat tilting up to reveal a small smile.

“Before the name of new eternity became the old knight’s name. ‘ _I’m lost,’ he says with a smile, ‘and so are you’_. Music makes her remember when she wasn’t. When she played, they marched on in melancholy and never returned.” _Gods, what in the Void does that mean?_ Dhrui thought. Solas nodded at Cole as if it made perfect sense, but remained quiet, completely in his own world. The way he was looking at Maordrid was intense. Even she could feel the weight of it. Something about it was arousing in a twisted, roundabout sort of way. The Dread Wolf had been snared, yet his eyes still watched his prey. Unfortunately for him, Maordrid was anything but.

The ink-haired elf climbed on stage into the light. Dhrui could see a light sheen of sweat on her brow and an even finer tremor in her hands.

“Is she going up to sing?” Blackwall wondered, stroking his beard. The mage nodded.

“ _Solas!_ She’s going to get booed out of here,” Dhrui hissed at him. He shook his head minutely, taking a long swallow of his drink.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss her, _len’sila,_ ” he said, then settled back into his chair like it was a throne. An unvoiced thought died on her tongue as Maordrid began to speak. And it was such a far cry from her usual confidence that it was nearly unrecognisable. It was quiet, shy, _nervous._ Her calloused fingers began to move over the strings, plucking them delicately like one might touch petals of a flower. 

Then she began to sing, still too quiet. Dhrui saw Cole appear in the scant shadows of the stage where no one seemed to notice, perhaps trying to give her confidence with his abilities. It must have been so, as Maori’s voice became audible. It had a smoky quality to it, not at all like the silver-lined ray of sunshine that had been Eivuna’s. No, she was like a dark, swelling sea. The smoke came from a burning, sinking ship.

The song itself was strange, otherworldly…yet somehow personal. When the line _the Wolf I will follow into the storm_ was spoken, it took all of her will not to look at Solas immediately. It was for him. She wondered if Maordrid had premeditated it. The woman was wicked, playing him like that. Maori had gotten out of her seat and was making her way around the stage, her eyes—grey lit silver in the light, just like the song—roamed the darkness until they finally landed on Solas, if only for a beat, then moved on. One of his hands were balled up on his thigh, the other curled tightly around the middle of his mug. He looked like he might spring out of his chair any second to snatch her off the stage. 

“So this is what we’ve been missing out on?” Dorian whispered. “That little snake!” Maordrid finished singing upstage and slowly made her way back down it toward the chair, the lute the only thing making noise at this point. Then it was over. She set the instrument down with poorly controlled panic and fled the stage. Around them, the Lyre and Leaf exploded into applause. Several people were crying. Their own group had wildly varying reactions with discussion just as differing.

Dhrui opened her mouth to say something to Maordrid as she came their way but the woman rushed right past them without even a glance. There was a shuffle as Yin and Varric rose from their chairs to chase after her. Solas had leaned forward in his seat, fingers steepled against his lips and eyes frozen on the lute. She almost went to nudge his foot with hers but just a second before she did he seemed to reach some inner decision, nodding to himself and rising silent as a shadow, melding with the crowds just as easily. 

The rest of the company began getting to their feet when it became apparent that they were moving on. Dhrui knew there was no chance she was going to get to speak with Maori that night. Part of her wanted to, but ultimately she would go with her Warden to a secret place he’d been wanting to show her at night. Dorian wouldn’t stop ranting about how preposterous it was that Maori had been keeping her inner muse hidden from them, something Dhrui wholeheartedly agreed with. As they were leaving, Yin began belting out broken lyrics and was quickly quieted by everyone before he drew attention to himself. Dorian suggested they go to another place for drinks, to which Yin needed no persuading. Cassandra muttered some excuse about going back to the Cup and Casque with an impatient glare at Frederic who’d attached himself to her. Dorian just winked back at them and corralled her brother away from the Lyre and Leaf. Meanwhile, Bull, Sera, and Varric were all busy discussing where they should go next and if they should follow the Inquisitor. Dhrui caught sight of Maori leaning against a maple looking sick. She giggled at the woman’s miserable expression.

“Uh-oh, someone has post-stage fright?” she said, coming to stand beside her. Blackwall joined her, looking a little bit more sympathetic.

“Had a feeling the reason she went up there was on a drunken dare,” he commented, then raised his brows as Solas joined them. He looked like he might reach for Maordrid, but instead he tucked his hands behind his back as usual.

“She should probably eat something,” Dhrui said. “Unless you two wanna join us for some more drinks?” Maori looked like she wanted nothing more than to cease existing. 

“Ah…go on ahead,” Maori said, trying very hard to sound untouched by the alcohol. “I will not be long.” Dhrui stepped forward, wondering if she should take her friend back to the Herring, but Blackwall’s hand at her waist definitely had her reconsidering. Giddilyy, she sprang forward and planted a good luck kiss against Maori’s temple.

_“’Til later, my salty siren!”_ She backed up, looking at the other immortal in their midst. “And Solas, don’t let her go chasing wolves into storms!” His smile seemed private, but she knew what it meant. She whirled around before her stare got too suspicious, towing Blackwall toward where the others were waiting. As they walked jovially through the city, Sera bickered with him about where they could get the best ‘grub’.

“Yeah, but the twisty dough place throws out all the good stuff when it’s all still…well, _good_!” Sera was saying. “Your Bone-Apple-Tree place sounds _boring_ and fancy even for you, Beardy.” Bull elbowed Sera, nearly tossing her off her feet.

“Yeah, that’s probably the point,” he rumbled, but it seemed to go right over the archer’s head.

“C’mon, Buttercup, we should go rescue the Seeker from the Prof before she demonstrates the way a Pentaghast guts a dragon,” Varric said. Sera seemed to catch on then, glancing back at Blackwall with wide, disgusted eyes.

“Oh, you _twooo_ ,” she teased too loudly. “Beardy wants to Bone _your_ Apple Tree!” Iron Bull roared with laughter and lumbered after Sera who went cackling in direction of the Cup and Casque. Varric shrugged apologetically and left them behind. Blackwall cleared his throat gruffly, straightening his for-once clean coat. 

“You interested? In the food, I mean,” he said, cheeks reddening fiercely above his beard. Dhrui giggled.

“I’m _always_ hungry,” she said. He chuckled and motioned for her to follow, keeping a little bit of distance between them as if he hadn’t been giving her light little touches all through the performances. He remained in a vigilant silence, standing up the straightest she’d ever seen him. Every time the moonlight shone down on them, it made him look much younger, washing out the wrinkles in his face and making his black hair almost shiny. She liked the goofy, gruff side of him, sure, but _she_ was more than enough of that for both of them. What drew her to her Warden was his gallantry and the mysterious grimness. It was a good balance. On that thought, she reached out and took his arm with a hesitant smile. Blackwall looked down at her, returned it briefly, then went back to holding that troubled expression he’d been wearing ever since they’d reunited. His rough fingers clenched a bit too tightly at her own hand in the crook of his arm, but she didn’t mind.

“There it is,” he said, nodding up at a quaint little cafe set just across from the glittering lead-infused lake. There were several large pots bearing colourful cabbages and a few seasonal flowers. A wooden rail was set in a square out front, serving as a barrier for a designated sitting area within. 

“What does the sign say?” she asked, pointing to the Orlesian words on a wooden placard above the door. Blackwall grunted, rubbing the back of his head, peering at her through one eye.

“Ah…it actually does say Bone Apple Tree, but in Orlesian. It’s a play on—”

_“Bon apetit!”_ They both laughed at her terrible accent and proceeded inside. She was hit by the decadent aroma of chocolates, rich coffee, and sweet breads. “There’s some of the little cakes Solas likes!” she exclaimed, running up to a pyramidal display of colour coordinated confectioneries. At her voice, an elven woman appeared wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. When she saw the Inquisition pins on their cloaks, the woman smiled brightly and called back into the kitchen in Orlesian. Together, her and Blackwall engaged in enthusiastic conversation over Eivuna’s performance and found out that most of the kitchen absolutely adored the minstrel. They were excited to talk about the romantic songs she sang and were even more thrilled to discuss the subtle meanings of the lyrics. The first elf ended up pushing a few experimental pastries on them before they left with a hospitable invitation to return with the other members of their group for a delicious breakfast that Blackwall vouched for personally.

“You really enjoyed Eivuna,” he said as he routed them toward his inn. She knew that meant he was going to try shooing her off soon. “Had me worried that you’d follow through with that threat to run away with her.” Dhrui snorted, tossing her braid over her shoulder.

“She has a thing for short and stocky. Dwarves, if you hadn’t noticed. Maori had a better chance,” she snickered, remembering the way Eivuna had touched Maori’s hand. She hadn’t made physical contact with anyone else besides Ortan.

“So, you said Maordrid gets songs…from the Fade?” he asked, sounding a bit wary. “Kind of like Solas and Cole with all their confusing babble?” 

“It’s not confusing! You just have to spin it around on its head a few different times,” she insisted.

“Now you sound like Sera,” he joked. She rolled her eyes. “Guess I just wasn’t expecting a muse to emerge from that sombre woman. Think she was like Eivuna before all this? A travelling bard? She’s got the skill set for it.” She had to swallow down a powerful laugh that wanted to burst out at the image of Maori frolicking through forests and the Fade in search of inspiration for songs. Then again, Cole had said something odd. Music made her remember, but it also made her sad, she thought. From what her and Solas had seen that day with the young elven boy by the water, it made sense. She’d seemed haunted by the lute but at peace once she’d started playing.

“In another life, probably,” she answered casually, licking cinnamon and sugar from her fingers.

“Well, whatever that was, your obsession with detail got me paying attention to it myself. Solas occasionally mentions having seen war, but he doesn’t carry himself like a soldier. Maordrid _does_ but you’d never expect what we saw from her. I’m starting to think I’m the worst at making judgements of people,” he said with a laugh. “That said, I’ve never seen Solas without that mask of his. With the way he was looking at her, you’d think they were the only two people in the room tonight.” Dhrui made a cooing noise, rubbing her cheek fondly on his shoulder.

“That’s so romantic!” she sighed. “You _do_ have a soft side! Does that mean you’re going to serenade me soon?” He chuckled, finally drawing her in for a gentle kiss. She realised they had arrived at his place of stay and her heart dropped.

“Another time, maybe. I should tell you…tonight is my last night here,” he said, taking both her hands. She peered up at him, frowning. “Don’t…don’t look at me like that, you know I’m weak to that sweet face of yours.” She couldn’t resist a smile.

“Was that an invitation inside?” she asked. He tried for a grin, but it faltered and fell.

“I…I should really walk you back to the Ivory Herring, my Lady,” he said, breaking eye contact to glance behind them. “It’s late and I’m sure your brother is concerned for you—”

“Shoddy excuse,” she said. “We’re alone, _finally,_ and it’s your last night here? In Val Royeaux?” He hesitated, then nodded into his chest. “If you wanted to take me back to the Herring, then why’d we walk all the way here?” He shook his head, casting his gaze to the skies as if praying to his Maker.

“Some selfish part of me wanted to make the journey back as long as possible,” he finally said. “The thing is, when I’m with you…you make me feel like I can do anything and it feels…well, it’s powerful. Every time we part ways a little part of me dreads that it might be the last.” Dhrui searched his face, wondering if he’d had a little too much to drink. But he hadn’t had more than three mugs of ale, she thought. 

“There’s always a small chance that it could be,” she said, channelling her inner Maordrid. “So we should take those chances of happiness while we can. In these hard times, it’s even more of a reason. Don’t you think?” He looked at her pleadingly.

“You make a convincing argument,” he admitted.

“Then let me persuade you the rest of the way, brave Warden. We’ve had a lovely night—let’s not end it at a doorway with polite farewells. Don’t act like your hand hasn’t been on my thigh or your lips on my neck!” she said, glad when his blush was visible even in the moonlight. “And please…I don’t want to keep chasing you. Why can’t we make a decision together for once?” Maybe she shouldn’t have been pushing so hard. Maybe there was a reason why he was being so damn difficult. But was it because he respected her brother? Was he afraid of Yin? Or had Yin threatened him? The thought made her angry. How many other friends had she’d been robbed of because of the shadow he was casting on her? “Damn you. I just want…Yin has Dorian. Raj will be bonded soon, too, I’m sure. Everyone is finding _someone_.” She wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve, looking down at her feet. “And you know what? Vyr is so pretty and heroic, but she told me she hasn’t found love. I’m going to be alone, aren’t I?” Large, tree-trunk arms tugged her to a muscle-bound chest.

“No, not a beautiful soul like you,” he rumbled, stroking her hair. “I can’t give you what you deserve, Dhrui Lavellan, but someone…there’s going to be a very lucky person out there that will be blessed to have you even _look_ at them, nonetheless have your love.” She wriggled free of his hand to meet his gaze one last time. One last chance, she’d give him to change his mind.

“Give me this one night,” she said, but he began to shake his head. “Then just a few more hours? Please. Let me show you what you mean to me.” He gripped her shoulders, hands engulfing them almost entirely as he looking at her with longing. 

“This isn’t going to end well,” he said, but swept her up into his arms like a bride and kicked open the inn door.

“You know what my name means?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I don’t, unfortunately,” he said. 

“The root is elven for _faith_ or _belief._ This is the only time it’s come in handy. Some day, I’ll change it ‘cause I hate it. But for now, have some damn faith,” she said. Blackwall let out a full laugh, climbing the stairs with the limberness of a young man. 

“As you wish, Lady _Faith_ ,” he said. She hated it. But she didn’t hate anything else that followed.

  


—————————————-

“Dhrui.” She groaned, rolling in the blankets away from the hand trying to shake her from pleasant dreams. “Dhrui, it’s time.” When he didn’t stop, she finally opened her eyes and sat up, the furs falling away from her bare chest. Blackwall hastily cast his gaze from her as though they hadn’t just laid together. She noticed he was fully clothed again. 

“Seriously?” she mumbled, taking her tunic from his hand. “You’re taking me back…now?”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I…you know I can’t,” he said. The shake in his voice had her getting dressed quickly. She would have argued, but for once she was stunned into silence. When she stood by the door, she clutched her cloak tightly about her figure staring at the knots in the planks of the wood floor. Blackwall’s boots came into view, but his hands didn’t touch her. There was a coldness between them that had been completely nonexistent only a few hours ago. She held back the tears that threatened to fall. _What did I do wrong?_

He escorted her back to the inn in silence, though it seemed like he was on the edge of saying something the whole time. 

She tried to focus on the night around them. It was easy to pretend that they were walking through an elven temple with the way that the marble and gold rose all around them, gleaming beautifully in the moonlight. They were far in the future where the world had seen peace—brought by their hands. Yin and Dorian would be years into a strong marriage and maybe even have their own family. Raj would be a successful clan leader, excited for once to see her with her chosen Warden who was cured of the Blight. Maybe she’d even be married. And Maori would be happy and playing a lute for Solas who wouldn’t have heard the name Fen’harel or the Dread Wolf used for many years. Maybe those two would retire together and wander the world in search of stories they would share upon their return.

That silly, rose-coloured dream was shattered when Blackwall left her on the threshold of the Ivory Herring with a half-hearted, _good night, Lady Lavellan_. Not even _my_ _Lady._ She wouldn’t leave it like this. Come morning, she would rush back to the inn and find him still in that tiny bed, oversleeping. She’d wake him up with that thick, hot oat drink he liked in the mornings and everything would be fine.

Sighing, Dhrui pushed her way into the Herring and wondered if she should return to the room she shared with Solas and Maori. When she came upon the faded white door, she pressed her ear to it and listened. It was quiet, with no light beneath the crack of the door to tell her if anyone was inside. Dhrui turned the handle, feeling the spring in the door as she fed it open. She stepped inside, leaving it cracked open just enough to let the moonlight guide her way in. The curtain was drawn over the window though it billowed in presence of a cool breeze flowing through. She knew she should just turn and invade Yin’s room if they weren’t back. 

Her eyes landed on two forms in the other bed and instead of feeling guilt, her sorrow-roughened heart softened at what she saw. Solas lay on his back in the middle of the bed halfway beneath the covers, arm thrown over his eyes, lips parted in his sleep. Then there was Maordrid turned slightly into his side, arms crossed tightly over her torso as though she had fallen asleep standing up, always so guarded. Adorably, Maordrid was wearing his sweater, long hair splayed about like spilled ink. Solas’ free arm was curled around her, hand loosely entangled in the ends with some of it splayed across his face. Dhrui thought she might find herself envying them, but instead all she felt was gentle relief. They deserved respite from their troubles. And she had intruded long enough. 

Dhrui placed a pitcher of water by their nightstand and crept out, shutting the door behind her. Then tiredly, she made her way to Yin and Dorian’s room and realised she could have just checked for occupants with her aura originally. There was no sign of her brother, or the distinctive Anchor that usually thrummed in the air. After spending a few minutes trying to find a weakness in the door, she found she was able to break into their room simply by jiggling the handle and pulling it toward her. _Dangerous,_ she thought, as she shut it and peeled off her layers. She grabbed one of the hundred shirts Dorian had bought and slipped it on before jumping on their massive bed and curling up at the foot of it, tucking a pillow under her head.

As drowsiness settled into her bones, she found herself thinking about the prospect of being alone. She had never really tried to form any lasting emotional relationships with anyone, sort of like Yin had been most of his life. Blackwall was her first real attempt. Yin and Raj had always warned her against trusting men or women with her emotions, having both experienced heartbreak themselves. Since then, she had largely flirted and let her brothers believe she was the little heartbreaker, not the other way around. It was only after her little fling with Vyr that she began to worry about her ways. Maybe she had tried to change too late for Blackwall.

She found herself missing her father. Braern the Bear of Clan Lavellan, who would hug her close and sing her songs and make her wildberry pies. Her silly _papae_ who would meet her in the Fade, always appearing as a magical dwarven mage wearing purple robes and talking in a ridiculous made-up accent. He would fill her dreams full of laughter and family. Dhrui buried her face in the sheets and closed her eyes, drifting off at last into memories of light and love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	89. The Wolf & the Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this song:  
> [[X]](https://youtu.be/lk_4l4qGlzc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey  
> I tried mouse-over translations [thanks @faerieavalon, brilliant idea]  
> I still put them in the notes at the end. :)

Maordrid’s eyes shot open to a room turning light blue with the tellings of dawn. She sat up slowly, blinking nauseously and swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. Solas was rolled onto his side away from her, curled up in her cloak sound asleep. When had they come back inside?

Her stomach rolled—she slapped her hand against her mouth.

_I need fresh air. Now._

As quietly as she could manage, she tucked her shirt into her leathers while swiftly gathering her pipe satchel and waterskin as well as a little coin before escaping the room. Rushing down the hall, she cast glances back over her shoulder in panicked confusion, remembering far less of last night than the one before. Stepping out into the brisk morning air brought her a little more clarity, but the movement was too fast for her still-sleep ridden body.

She got some steps down the street before the second wave of nausea won out over self control. She ducked out of sight just in time to vomit into some manicured hedges. Three times. Panting with a groan, she rested her head against the cool stone beside her, swishing some water to clean her mouth out. Very little relief would be found from the hangover for some time yet. 

Her feet carried her of their own accord through ghostly morning streets. Eventually, she found herself standing at the edge of the Miroir de la Mère, eyes half lidded against the fog hovering above its surface, all horribly bright.

The nerve-wracking thoughts came next. _What have I done? I’ve ruined everything. Breached his trust. There was…a kiss? I can’t remember, Void take me._ A horrific realisation dawned on her: _Did I take advantage of him?_

_Fingers pressing into hips, pulling. The smell of honey and the tang of wine on his breath. Stifling heat._

She recoiled from the memory violently, leaning woozily against a nearby bench. 

“Easy there, miss. You all right?” an unfamiliar Orlesian voice asked. She turned to her head to see an elderly man approaching from the other side of the bench, a silver-tipped cane in his hand. Wisps of cloud clung to the sides of his bespectacled head. He gave a kindly smile. “Rough night?”

“That is what I am trying to figure out,” she said, voice rasping unpleasantly. She cleared her throat gruffly and waited for him to be on his way, but he didn’t move. “Pardon, may I help you with something?” The old man walked forward rather smoothly and sat down on the bench.

“I am simply taking my morning walk,” he said brightly, stretching out his right leg. She became acutely aware of how tightly she was gripping the bench when her fingers began to ache. “My dear, you look positively troubled. And about to topple over—might I convince you to sit?” He patted the bench beside him. She didn’t move for a long moment, thoughts still racing, making it difficult for her to anchor herself in the present. She lowered herself onto the farthest end immediately when her stomach threatened sick up again. The old man chuckled in a way that stoked her ire. She was frustrated with herself and her foolish indulgences. She’d become _weak._ Maori felt his gaze on her and didn’t hesitate to return it. “Would you humour an old soul? That is, if you’ve nowhere to be.” She sighed, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. There was no harm in talking, perhaps except that it did nothing for her headache. Even so, she nodded once. 

“I might vomit,” she warned. 

“Forgiven,” he said, all smiles. “So, I’ll wager you’d a night out in this…gold-dipped shit pile we call a city?” Her eyebrows raised, but she didn’t look at him. “The night life is certainly something else. But not comparable to places like Antiva or Rivain. Though it strives to be as lively. Although, I get the feeling that’s something you don’t normally do.” Her chuckle was laced with a whiny wince.

“No. Perhaps in my youth,” she admitted, “I was…dragged there by my friends.”

“Didn’t drag your feet for long, else you’d not be looking as green as you do,” he said with amusement. 

“True. I suppose then that it was fun, for a time,” she said. “The music was…not exactly to my taste, but the company was good.”

“Ah, you saw Eivuna then?” She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he’d seen the performances. _Her_ performance. “She only ever plays at night when the moon is rich and full. Pretty lass with a lovely voice. You’re not a romantic, then? Your friends are.”

“Yes,” she said slow and suspicious, while pulling her pipe out. There was a little wrapping of Fade-touched elfroot in the satchel that could help with the nausea. The old man watched her prepare it and light the bowl with a flame at the tip of her finger. “What about you?” His leathery lips crinkled into a smile.

“In my old age, I have found my heart softening to such things. I used to be a hardened youth that once sought to be a soldier in the Empress’ army. Thought love was a weakness. Not proud of those days,” he said. “I see a bit of that old spirit in you.” 

“Of course happenstance would have me meet someone like you,” she muttered as she exhaled. “Apologies, this hangover is doing no favours to my manners.” 

“No worries,” he replied cheerily. She offered him the pipe, which he took. “Eivuna could smooth pumice from a volcano with her music, if you gave it long enough. If her music did not touch you in some way, then something did, didn’t it?” He handed her pipe back, eyes peering out of their wrinkled caverns at her. “You smoke from a fine pipe and you drank quite heavily last night. Scars and callouses on your hands—a soldier, maybe? So I’ll wager you’re not entirely unfamiliar to the bottle, but something sent you over the edge last night.” She couldn’t help but grin.

“Keep going, old man. You are exceptionally good at this,” she said, taking one more draw off her pipe before dousing it. The nausea was suitably dulled, but the headache lingered stubbornly. At least the muscle pains from the alcohol were diminished.

“Leopold,” he said, “is my name.”

“Leopold, then,” she said. “Why are you so curious about me?” 

“I am an old, divorced, retired merchant. I have nothing better to do,” he said. She wasn’t sure if that was an insult or not, but it amused her. “You were looking very remorseful before I interrupted your rumination. You said you weren’t sure it was a rough night or not, so something _good_ did happen, hm? Or do you remember?”

“Parts of it,” she said, recalling flirtations in the Leaf and Lyre. Taunting Solas a handful of times. Who had leaned forward first on the banister? The barest of kisses, little more than the one on the sparring field. Her cheeks burned. Leopold chuckled. “Enough to wonder if I made a mistake or…took advantage when I should not have. Blood and ashes, I do not know.” She hunched, looking away from the old man.

“Ah, I see. Repressing feelings, then? Or fighting them? Same difference.” 

“Why am I talking to you?” she snapped. Leopold leaned back on the bench unmoved by her outburst. 

“I am a stranger—I do not know you. You are free to say whatever you like to me and know that we may part ways and never see each other again. Perhaps I may have advice?” he said, placing both his hands over the head of his cane. “And…I enjoy a little drama. Angst, as the young ones call it.” 

She huffed her disbelief. “I am not so young as you think.”

“Perhaps not, but when it comes to love most of us are.” She fell silent with no rebuttal. “Your interest, then—do they return the feelings?” Again, she was brought up short. Solas felt _something_ , but just how much could a man once called a god—a man who had once had _everything_ love someone like her? 

“For sake of simplicity, let us say he does on some level,” she caved. “I think the drinking may have overrode any sort of reasoning for either of us.”

“Did you initiate?” The question took her offguard again, but she found herself considering. She closed her eyes and scanned her memories of last night. _He followed you to the bar at the performance. His favour. He appealed to your pride and you took it like bait on a hook, uncaring that the hook would tear your insides._

“No,” she said, opening her eyes. “But I cannot say how much he had to drink beforehand. Normally…normally he is reserved. A statue with a beating heart.”

“That does not excuse his actions. Even if he was partaking, he chose to do so and knew the consequences of drinking, no? He made a choice,” Leopold said. “And you responded in kind, so it seems.” 

“Yet I should not have encouraged it. Giving in is completely foolhardy, considering our lots in life,” she said. “Then there is the part where we are hiding from one another. What good can come of that? He will discover a half-truth that will lead him into believing I never cared for him. That I did this only to further my own goals…” She took a sharp breath, finally having given voice to that fear. “Should I not stop this? To protect his heart? Is that not what love would do? Let go?” Leopold’s thin, gnarled hand came to rest on her wrist. She looked at him fully for the first time, trembling inside.

“There are no right answers,” he said with earnestness. “There is strength in letting go, but also in weathering the storms that come.” A small laugh escaped her.

“I have heard that a lot lately. He called me a storm,” she said distantly, then shook herself. “I am beginning to think that is the theme of my life.” Leopold smiled, his face softening again.

“All storms come to pass,” he said. Her mouth twitched briefly into a smile before fading again.

“For me, it has been one after another for thousands of years,” she said. “And even in this world they are present.” The old man let out a scratchy laugh, curling over his cane.

“My dear girl, then perhaps your man was right—you are a storm,” he said. “In that case, you can control where you go. Those who believe fate is predefined are only too scared of struggle and pain, choosing instead to think the Maker has a plan for them. But I can see you are no stranger to either. Why stop?”

“It is not so simple, Leopold,” she said. She had heard the same words from Solas.

“Isn’t it? You clearly have your mind made up. What more is there to do than tell him what you feel? If you must, apologise for your actions last night. Then tell him of your feelings. If he denies you, then you have your ‘letting go’. You are free. If not…well, I shouldn’t have to finish that thought.” She stared at her feet, mulling it over. “Think about it. How about I treat you to breakfast? I know a good spot for hangovers.” He groaned as he got to his feet, then turned, waiting.

“You are a strange old man,” she said, getting up as well. He smirked and offered his arm.

“Just got nothing better to do,” he said. She shook her head with a smile and took his arm.

  


  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


  


Dhrui woke to snoring and sat up, rubbing her eyes. At some point, Dorian and Yin had returned and were piled onto the bed beside her. Both looked like shit, covered in bruises and dried blood. They didn’t look like they were going to be waking any time soon. Her stomach growled ferociously, begging her for sustenance. She rolled reluctantly from the comfortable bed and padded over to the door.

“Dhrui?” Yin’s groggy voice called out. “I’m not getting out of bed today. All plans on hold. Food?” She rolled her eyes and nodded. His head fell back onto the pillows with a groan. She left and walked back to freshen up in her own room. She cast her aura beneath the door once she arrived and found only one presence, curiously. She pushed through and saw Solas still sleeping—well, that was until he jolted awake at her entry, hand flying to the empty space beside him.

“Maori?” he asked, voice cloyed with sleep as he sat up abruptly. Confused as well, Dhrui looked into the bathing chamber and found it empty. Solas cursed, holding his head at the edge of the bed.

“Is everything all right?” she asked worriedly. He muttered something in elven under his breath and bent down to rifle through his pack in search of a shirt. “She probably went out for a fresh breath, if she drank as much as I think she did.” He didn’t answer—his distress was clear. Maybe he had done something he regretted. Or both of them did. She wasn’t really sure how Maordrid dealt with stress. Something clearly was off.

“She took my shirt,” he suddenly exclaimed. “I do not even remember taking it off!”

“You just bought some! How are they gone?” she said. Articles of clothing flew onto the floor, but none of them were shirts. He sighed, sitting back on his haunches.

_“Sera,”_ he said, uttering the name like a curse. “How did she get in here?” Solas hissed to himself, glancing around as if the rogue might be hiding somewhere in the tiny room. Dhrui looked down at the one of Dorian’s she was wearing and then pulled it off. 

“This should fit you,” she said, tossing it at the back of his head and going to grab one of her own. He held it before his eyes and wrinkled his nose.

“Is this… _Dorian’s?_ ” he said with repulsion. “It reeks of perfume!”

“Then…I dunno, rub it into your bag?”

“Then _my_ things will smell.” She looked at Maori’s bag, pondering.

“How about Maori’s? You wouldn’t think it, but she wears scents.” He was quiet. She saw him look across the beds considering. She ran over, snatching it from him and taking hold of Maordrid’s rucksack. With a mischievous grin, she opened one of the several pouches on the side and withdrew the tiny carved wooden box Maori had kept so well concealed. The woman was all rough edges and seemed to enjoy pushing that image of herself—except, everyone had a soft spot. Dhrui removed the little vial from its padded box and dabbed a little of the liquid in various places along Dorian’s white shirt. The scent of bergamot and oakmoss wafted up at her as she replaced the vial and lifted the shirt to give to him. He took it almost reverently and slid it on. She hadn’t realised how deep the neckline had been on herself, but when he put it on it nearly reached the tip of his sternum. She stifled a giggle. Solas was a good distraction from her own troubles.

“This stays between us,” he said, shoving his arms hastily into his coat and drawing it shut.

“Whoa there, buy me dinner first,” she said, delighting in the way he hunched his shoulders irritably. “Or breakfast. Wanna go?” He sighed and turned around, wrapping his belt around his waist as he glowered at her. “C’mon, everyone else is dead for the day. Yin wants food, so I’m going to get him some. And I had a shitty night too.” She looked up at him, batting her lashes, “I heard someone has a sweet tooth and I know a marvellous place just for it.” He snorted and headed for the door in silence.

Once again out on the streets, her mind wandered. For one, she was glad she had—mostly—given up drinking before leaving her clan. Hangovers were terrible. Secondly, she noticed that Solas was stiff as a board and wasn’t saying _anything_ , which was making her curiosity itch like rashvine. Because hers ended so terribly, she disgustingly wondered what other disasters happened last night. It seemed like it had been going so well for them. 

But maybe…no, it definitely ran deeper than what they all saw. Despite what she thought she knew. After reading the bits of the transcript that Mother Dorian allowed her to read—because of course he had refused her sections—she wondered at his motivations and if they were going to change with him being…well, in love, is what she thought it was. If it was, she was witnessing a god of her people fall in love, proving everything she had ever known about him to be wrong. Perhaps she should have been a little more distraught over the foundations of her beliefs crumbling, but it was still very difficult to connect Fen’harel to the calm hedge mage at her side. The Dread Wolf in love. _What a strange phrase_. Perhaps that was part of why she wasn’t entirely terrified of the future where he was written to tear down the Veil and potentially destroy her world. Maybe love would soften him?

Probably not.

He was a glacier and glaciers took ages to melt. 

It was horrifying when she  really thought about it. And she was thinking about it. She scrutinised him, eyes narrowing at the side of his head. But…the Dread Wolf was just a man? With a hangover! And walking with her to get breakfast…

_Waaaay weird._

“ _Gya’len_ , I can feel you staring at me.” His lyrical voice shocked her like ice water.  Yeah, and apparently he can petrify someone without looking at them in the future. She didn’t want to think of their apostate going rogue like that. She liked him as he was, arrogance and all.  _Stupid bastard, making me like him and stuff._

“You just have me thinking, _ghi’lan_ ,” she said. _And he calls me len’sila, like I’m his student. He’s my ghi’lan, like Maori. I don’t…I don’t want that to change._

“I thought I smelled something burning,” he said, making her laugh. _I’d miss that wit, too,_ she thought.

“Are we…friends, Solas?” He glanced at her in surprise.

“We are getting breakfast together,” he said slowly. “Isn’t that something friends do?” She smiled at him.

“Just making sure! Sometimes I feel like you hate everyone,” she teased.

“I can assure you that I do not,” he said. “Although, ‘tolerate’ would be a better word.” She smacked his arm. He regarded her thoughtfully before looking ahead again. “There is a melancholy to your silence. It is unlike you.” For once, she didn’t say anything right away. And now she was reminded of what she was avoiding. The idea of ambushing Blackwall was less appealing in light of day. She wanted _him_ to come to her of his own volition for once. Dhrui ran fingers through her bangs, glaring at a happy couple passing them by.

“I’m still trying to figure it out,” she said glumly. Out of nowhere, she blurted, “I’m lost.” Solas slowed his pace, turning his head to look at her with concern, then stopped. She didn’t meet his steely gaze, biting her lip and turning her eyes to the side somewhere. 

“That is not unusual for you, but I sense it is different this time,” he said. She saw him take a step toward her in her peripheral vision. Dhrui snorted at his little jab.

“It’s…probably not something you want to hear anyway,” she muttered. “I don’t know.” His hand fell lightly on her shoulder, surprising her. He was never one for physical contact. 

“You could try. If you like,” he offered. She eyed him hesitantly before averting her gaze again, fidgeting with her braid.

“I did something, then I didn’t do something that I _should_ have done…” she trailed off, biting back tears. “No, I don’t think I want to talk about it, Solas.” She sniffled, looking up at him. “My father used to give me dreams and good food when things were bad. Would you…tell me about some of your dreams?” Solas smiled, giving her shoulder a rather patronly squeeze. It hurt her heart in a different way.

“ _Ma nuvenin, lethallin_ ,” he said in his gentle way, gesturing ahead. She smiled and they started walking.

“Do it in elven,” she added before he could start, taking satisfaction in the way his ears perked up enthusiastically.

Solas waxed poetic even when they found the bakery she and Blackwall had visited the previous night. One of the workers was there, eyeing her change of company. The elven woman even seemed slightly displeased, having been obviously fond of Blackwall. Nervously, Dhrui ordered too many sweets with the elven ‘god’ talking her ear off and she didn’t have the heart to interrupt him or to correct the baker woman. Solas got his frilly cakes and she was pleased with the moist little bread that was an Orlesian take on Antivan coffee cake. The two of them took a seat in the enclosure outside while they waited on some fancy eggs referred to as an _omelet_ that she had likely been overcharged for, if the woman’s spiteful look was any sign. Even though she was struggling to keep up with his elven, she loved the way it sounded. She stopped him a few times to ask him to translate a word—or maybe ten—but he never seemed to be upset, perhaps even pleased that she asked for help. Eventually, recounting the story turned into a lesson on the language itself. He told her a short folktale about a forest haunted by a terrible being that no one could trust. Anyone who went near without the being’s permission risked paying a price worse than death. However, a young spirited princess braved the forest and stole a rose growing from an old ruin. Upon doing so, she was confronted by this cursed guardian and found that he was not so terrible after all when she took the time to ask him how his fate came to be. He was but a man placed beneath the curse of an elven queen, doomed to serve against his will. Long story short, the princess promised to free him of his fetters. Solas didn’t tell her if they escaped the queen or not. She wondered if he even knew the ending himself. 

“Now,” he said, suddenly switching back to common. “Repeat the entire story in elven.” Her head spun a little as she floundered for the words. Her omelet was set in front of her while she struggled to remember how he had begun the story. Solas watched her with patient amusement, reaching forward with a fork to carve a bite from the hot food.

Very slowly—agonisingly, really—she began to recount it. Girl dares adventure into the forest. Comes upon a well with roses growing about it.

“ _Gra’lath’blar_ ,” he supplied when she couldn’t remember his word for rose.

“That’s so simple though! Red love flower? C’mon. My mother used to call them _gra’ashas,_ ” she said, pouring some milk into her tea. She watched aghast as Solas put something like six cubes of sugar into his own. “Want some tea with that sugar?” He glanced up at her through narrowed eyelids, but ignored the quip. 

“ _Gra’asha_ …hm. That is…” He nodded thoughtfully, taking a small sip of his tea with a grimace. He wasn’t going to admit that _gra’asha_ was a better name. “Continue.” 

Princess takes flower and guardian appears, demanding she return it or suffer the queen’s wrath.

_“But then the princess summoned a spear and hunted the queen down, plunging it deep into the tyrant’s heart!”_ Solas’ hand froze above the cake he was about to annihilate, eyes narrowing at her. 

“That is _not_ what happened,” he said. Dhrui refrained from looking at the familiar black-haired elf approaching down the street from the bakery—behind Solas.

“ _And instead of returning to the cursed guardian to lavish him with kisses, she invaded the queen’s pantry for sweets!”_ Solas sat back, crossing his arms in mock disapproval. She flicked her eyes behind him and allowed herself a grin as Maordrid arrived in the company of an elderly stranger. She watched as his face went from puzzled to realisation before he finally had the sense to turn his head. When he recognised her, Dhrui had to throw her hands out to prevent the table from tipping as he abruptly jumped up from his chair. His fingers were white where he gripped the edge of the table, as though his entire resolve seemed to waver in her presence.

“Thank you, Leopold. I believe this is where I leave you,” Maordrid said to the old man. Leopold appraised Solas with twinkling eyes and then smiled at Maordrid.

“Have a nice life,” he said, patting the warrior on the back and then turned away without saying anything to them. Solas peered curiously after the old fellow until Maordrid stepped closer, placing her hands on the rail separating the dining area from the street. 

“That looks delicious,” Maordrid remarked, looking at the little arrangement of food they had on the table. 

“Got you something!” Dhrui said, procuring a small bag from atop a box bearing cakes and pastries. “Ever had chocolate dipped coffee beans?” Maordrid shook her head, accepting it with both hands, then finally looked at Solas who seemed like he had been rendered mute at her arrival.

“Could we tal—”

“Do you have a mome—” The two of them cut off at the same time, adorably. Dhrui bit her lip to keep from laughing and quickly shovelled the remainder of her breakfast into her face. Maordrid sighed.

“I’m going to take these back to the inn. I’ll catch you later,  _sí_ ?” she said, rising. Maordrid offered her a grateful smile and Solas turned to help load the boxes into Dhrui’s arms. She pushed a small one into his hands that held his favourite little cakes.

“For later,” she said. For once, he smiled at her.

“Thank you,” he returned, then climbed over the rail to join Maordrid. Dhrui walked away with a bounce in her step and too much sweet in her veins.

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Maori shuffled her feet nervously as Solas stood before on her side of the enclosure, sneaking glances at him. She had seen the way he’d reacted to her arrival. If she had  _him_ jumping, she wondered just how poorly things had gone last night. 

“There are gardens nearby,” he said quickly. She just nodded, almost forgetting everything that she had talked over with Leopold. The old man had given her a strange amount of confidence…and it felt like it was getting swept away by the adrenalin now rushing through her.

They walked—or rather, she followed with her chocolate beans clutched tightly between both hands. Solas seemed in a dreamlike state himself, nearly missing the entry to the garden until she croaked out a pathetic warning.

The beauty of the Orlesian garden helped clear her mind some. A pathway checkered with grass squares wended its way between beds of vibrant flowers, dotted in between with manicured hedges. The amount of exotic plants flourishing in the cold made her wonder just how long they would last without magic to sustain them.

They strolled along silently appreciating the aromatic beauty around them, simply allowing the path to guide their feet. Birch trees and maples still clinging stubbornly to their leaves dotted the area, completely obscuring the city just outside of the garden. And of course, it wouldn’t be Orlesian without several different varieties of yellow flowers—the closest thing to gold that they could get—like marigolds, tulips, daffodils, hybrid roses, and so much more. She watched as Solas reached to pick a single sweetbrier poking between an arrangement of sunstruck roses.  _Sweetbriers—I wound to heal._ She wilted inside, wondering if he knew that too. Solas continued on twirling its prickly stem between his fingers carefully. Eventually, they broke off onto a smaller more private path lurking between two towering white azaleas. Inside was a pergola blanketed in fragrant wisterias, all of which were enclosed within a marble balustrade. Standing beneath its shade made her feel a little calmer, particularly when she wandered to the other side and saw that the secret cove overlooked a little park of perfect green grass and a small apple orchard. She leaned against one of its posts as he joined her at her side. 

His small chuckle caught her off guard as she searched for words, drawing her gaze.

“You lied to me again,” he said, catching her eye with a glint to his own. She frowned, panic beginning to set in. What had she _done?_ “You said you would not flee this morning.” A gusty breath escaped her and all she could do was stare out at the orchard in disbelief. 

“I…panicked,” she settled with confessing. “And I needed some time to think.” _And worry and panic some more. Which I am still doing._ She gave a weak laugh, “I’ve been meticulously picking through the right words to say to you and every language falls short of what I want. But now I stand before you and it seems they’re slipping away altogether.”

“Do not feel like you need to rush,” came his unwavering voice. “I find myself in a similar predicament.” She sighed, looking down at the parcel in her hands, wondering where she should start.

“Last night…I fear I do not recall much of it past the tavern,” she blurted, face burning. “I want to apologise—if I did anything untoward whatsoever—” Maori ground her fist into the stone of the balustrade, struggling for words. 

“Ah. You think we—” 

“I _pushed_ you. Everything I feel for you was only amplified by the wine. It was utterly irresponsible and disrespectful of me,” she continued in a rush, feeling the redness spreading down her neck and across her chest. Solas tilted his head, peering at her curiously.

“You pushed less than I shoved back. Do you believe that is something I would allow if I did not want it?” It was her turn to look at him, mouth gaping out of embarrassment.

“No! Of course not! I…but still—I crossed a line—we were drun—” The subtle curving of his lips had her stammering into a smoldering silence.

“If you crossed the line, I believe I may have jumped it altogether,” he said, blushing and peering down at his fingers sliding along the white stone. _I didn’t do anything?_ she could only wonder in astonishment. Solas continued quietly—guiltily, “If not for untimely interruptions, I may have crossed it much sooner.” He met her gaze this time, unwavering and she swallowed carefully. “Too many times we—I have almost lost you. Haven; Therinfal where I saw you suffering in the Fade and could do nothing. Then Adamant, had you followed through that rift, I wanted nothing more…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Then you came through a different one and the chance presented itself again. That time, I failed beneath pressure of my own mind.” Maori decided to slide onto the balustrade during the pause, not sure she could keep her legs. Solas stepped forward as well, setting his small box to the side and resting his own hands on it, gazing beyond into the orchard.

“I understand the sentiment,” she confessed. “The constant distractions have not helped make it any easier. I suppose I have also been waiting for an ideal moment that may never come.” She planted her hands flat beside her thighs, casting a glance at him. Solas breathed a quiet laugh.

“Indeed. Though if ‘ideal’ was an option, this is not where I would choose to be with you now,” he said. She tapped a finger along the leather satchel at her side, staring off into the flowers above their heads.

“An Elvhen garden would be nice,” she mused. Solas chuckled and pushed away from the rail to pace languidly, still twirling the little flower between his fingers.

“If we ever venture into the Arbor Wilds, I know of a place for such dreams,” he said. When she lowered her eyes from the purple blooms above without moving her head, she saw a delicate smile on his lips. “Alas, we are here, and I would…if  _you_ would allow me to speak my mind before I lose my equanimity. As I am prone to in your presence.” He clutched the sweetbrier gingerly between his slender fingers, looking down at it with turmoil writ in his brow. He brushed its blushing petals in silence and she realised he was waiting on her. She was afraid of what he might say. Maybe she shouldn’t let him continue. It would be—

A strangled whisper of a laugh escaped her throat and she hung her head, hunching her shoulders.

“Maori?” When she lifted her head, he had taken a step in with a worried expression. Hysterical tears welled in her eyes.

“ _Eman ar eal eral sul ta’vunin?"_ she wondered aloud, voice rasping like dry leaves. Solas strode over to her, dropping his hands to the sides. She looked brazenly into his face, searching for the flaw that would tell her if he was a spirit or something else. A bitter smile curled up and died on her lips. Solas reached out with one hand, hovering it over the side of her left knee before letting it fall onto the marble again. _"Ma tel’nuvena em."_

“ _Ma ane ga ar nuvena ___ _ _,” he replied smoothly. “And I am sorry I have not made that clearer. I again have myself to thank for that delay.” She dropped her eyes with a pained gasp, pressing her hand to her middle. Maori shook her head, trying to clear her jumbled thoughts. Everything was too bright, the air was too sharp, and she was feeling too much. There was__ _ _ too much to say and no way to communicate it the way she wanted. __

____

____

“You are not angry.” The words left her feeling winded, gaze sliding along the angles of his face until she reached those depthless eyes and was lost within. 

“I was fearful. And I always will be any time I think about losing you,” he said, placing himself smoothly before her. “As such, I tried and failed to…” He faltered again. It was so alien to see him without his usual confidence.

“Lose me on purpose, I know. Though I still do not understand it. I will always care for you,” she finished in a wan voice. “Did you forget about my promise? And Protection?” Solas frowned and shook his head.

“How could I?” he whispered as harshly as he had on that rainy day.

“It is the best thing I could offer,” she said with a grim smile. “It is all I have ever known.” His face softened again and those stormy eyes seemed to darken into grieving blue.

“I do not want or need protection,” he said, then his brows twitched and his tongue flicked out against his lips. “ _Telir ma.”_ Her breath caught in her throat again. Silver met beryl. 

_"Em'an? Saron?"_ Solas hesitated, but the nod that followed was resolute. Her head suddenly felt too light. Her hands gripped the stone and a ringing filled her ears deafeningly. 

_“Halani ghi’la galin. Venemah elvar vir. Sule tela._” He spoke earnestly, but she saw the way his shoulders were tensed as though about to withdraw. To flee again. 

_“I am not sure I remember this path,”_ she said with a pitiful laugh.  _“How to walk it.”_

“Another thing we share in common,” Solas said, twirling the sweetbrier again. “I suppose that is part of the reason why I have given it a wide berth. Especially after nearly ruining it on multiple occasions.” A tentative laugh escaped them both. “I have been working on it.” Combing her fingers through her unbound locks, she regarded him with one eye.

“I think you are doing fine. I have about as much tact as a dragon, Solas.” He laughed a little but shook his head.

“Not true,” he said, “You are glory and valour given form. Beautiful and terrifying as the magic you call from across the Veil as though…as though you are  _made_ of the Fade from which you fell.” While she was disarmed of words, Solas set the eglantine to the side and took her hands in his. She peered down at those long, calloused fingers. Hands that had constructed the Veil, now holding her own. “In all of Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could command my attention such as you have. I have searched deep into the memories of the Fade and have yet to encounter anything like you.” When she finally regained the courage to look into his face, he was wearing a sincere smile. Framed by the blends of snowy whites and delicate purples of the wisteria above, he seemed surreal. 

“What does that mean?” she whispered. His gaze dropped as he swept a thumb across her knuckles, then along her wrist before answering.

“It means that you are unique. A mystery that has ensorcelled me in every way possible,” he said, lifting his eyes again, “And you have become more important to me than I could ever have imagined.” He swept the back of his hand along her shoulder, pushing her hair behind her ear where he lingered, tracing softly along its blade with a single finger. It was less his touch that gave her gooseflesh along every inch of her body than it was his words.  _He’s been searching for answers, just like Dorian said._

Maori looked down at the amulet at his chest, biting the inside of her lip. “You give me too much credit.”

“You do not give yourself enough. You deserve better,” he countered. Settling her right hand against his chest, she closed her eyes, feeling the immortal heart within, beating a rhythm to match the erratic one in her chest. His other hand came to rest beneath her chin, beseeching her to look up into his face again. Solas smiled tenderly, touching her cheek. She felt that final wall crumble to dust beneath his gaze and knew her surrender was imminent.

_"Ame mar,"_ she breathed, moving her hand up his chest to his shoulder. He parted her knees, stepping closely until there was no space left. His hands cradled her jaw and the world came to a standstill. 

_"Ma tarasyl'nin,"_ he whispered, then pressed his lips to hers. She lost herself to him in a rhythm like the gentle swaying of an ocean deep. When she eagerly parted her lips for him, she drank his kiss like sea water, for which her thirst for him only grew. He tasted of honeyed tea and the same longing she had felt towards him for months. With a small gasp against his mouth that he caught with his own, her arms moved to curl around his neck, pressing her fingers into the back of his head, never getting enough. Solas took the opening and clung to her like a man drowning, hands trying to mold her to him—along her back, thighs, then returning to her hair where they tangled like kelp. 

Finally, they surfaced with shallow, ragged breaths, lips rosy as the sweetbrier beside them. Solas leaned his forehead against hers, his fingers still twined with her tresses. 

“ _Ar lath ma, vhenan,_ ” he whispered, so heart wrenchingly reverent that her next breath stuttered, shattered. She had to pull away for a moment, the weight of it crushing her. _Vhenan._ How could one word so grievously wound and heal in one breath? It reached deeper than any blade or spell, made all the more painful by her guilt. He had said the words and now it was real. 

Her eyes stung and her hands trembled. He noticed her distress, opening his mouth in question, but determination stole over his face and he kissed her again—deeply, then drew back to press them to her cheeks, her nose, chin, then lips one more time until she laughed and he did as well. She committed the sound to memory, crystallising the moment to keep forever. 

_“Ar lath ma,_ Solas,” she said and nothing truer had ever come from her tongue than those words. It seemed it was what he had been waiting for as well—Solas broke, pulling her close and burying his face in the crook of her neck, whispering in elven too quiet even for her…but they sounded like more promises made on his name that he followed with one more kiss. It took some time to release one another and by then, the sheer novelty was beginning to overwhelm. She had not expected there to be so much passion held behind his walls and being who she was, she had never experienced anything like it. She desired it beyond all else, but on the flip side of the coin, it was almost too much to handle in combination with all that he had confessed to her. It clashed with the responsibility of upholding her duty to him and the world, resulting in a sort of vertigo that had her backing down and resting her forehead heavily against his chest. 

“You are troubled.” She huffed a laugh, eyes sliding shut as she listened to her heart beating with his. Solas’ hands rested against her back, warm and solid.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Love has a tendency to do that.” Solas laughed warmly and it was a comfort. 

“Indeed,” he agreed, picking up the small box he’d been carrying since the baker. “Perhaps I can soothe your troubles with this. It is not much, but I find a surprising amount of comfort can come from little things.” She raised a brow as he opened the box.

“Sweets?” she said with a laugh behind her hand. Inside were two small layered cakes, a purple and white. True to his description, they were covered in frills of lacy frosting dusted with edible gold. 

“Do not underestimate their power,” he said, then pointed between them. “Lavender or vanilla?” There was an almost boyish look to his face. Lighter and more open than she had ever seen him. Because of  her.

“Pick for me,” she said, trying to smooth her hair out.

“The most difficult decision,” Solas said, but took out the vanilla one, somehow knowing her preference. She reached for it but he held it away. “May I?” Her cheeks warmed, but she nodded. He brought it to her lips and she bit into it and delighted in the subtle floral taste of vanilla. She was not one to usually like sweets—she preferred bitter and spicy tastes—but this one…it was more than a flavour. It was a precious moment to be remembered. His eyes wandered across her features, drinking her in with abandon, committing everything to memory as she was doing to him while she chewed. 

“More?” She loved the way his eyes lit up at her demand. This time she was bold, taking the rest of the cake and the tips of his fingers, watching him as she did. She captured the tip of his thumb with her lips, circling it with her tongue before beating a hasty retreat. It seemed the youthful spirit was infectious. She was a little embarrassed until she saw the darkening in his eyes.

“Audacious,” he said, watching her wipe the frosting from her mouth. 

“It was on your fingers. I wouldn’t want you to wipe it off on your nice coat,” she said with a serious intonation. She fought a grin, peering into the box where the lavender sat forgotten. She lifted it out on its paper doily. “I believe that means this is for you,  _vhenan.”_ The word was as foreign to her as a new language. How could something feel so right and wrong at the same time? His hand closed around her wrist, commanding her attention. “Well? Go on, take it.”

Solas raised his chin and simply plucked it from her fingers.

“Thank you,” he said politely, then took a small bite. His eyelids slid closed and he hummed in delight. “That reminds me—you have something else of mine.” He opened his eyes again as he set the cake back down, then redirected his attention to her. He hooked a finger beneath the hem of the sweater she was wearing. She reddened and caught his fingers, then wrenched his coat open, bunching it beneath his belt.

“You  _have_ a shirt—! Wait.” Her hand darted inside to the stark white material and the plunging neckline that revealed quite a bit of his alluring chest. “This is bold, even for you.”

“No—wait—” He tried stepping back, but she narrowed her eyes and hopped off the balustrade, bringing her nose to his chest after a familiar scent hit her.

“Is that my…and is this  _Dorian’s_ shirt?” she gasped, looking up at him in shock. His own eyes widened in mortification, then slid down to her own chest.

“You  _stole_ mine!” he insisted. “And someone let Sera into the room. She has made off with all but what you are wearing of mine.” 

“And so you somehow knew I had fragrance in my pack—I’m not sure I want to know how you came by Dorian’s shirt.” She chortled at his reddening cheeks.

“No! Dhrui—” She wrapped her arms around her sides as her laughter intensified. When it subsided some, she finally straightened up to see him glowering down at her.

“I think you wear the style well, although it could easily be ripped,” she said, hooking a finger in the V. “And it is very tempting.”

“In your dreams,” he muttered.

“Is that a suggestion?” she asked innocently, tilting her head to the side. He groaned, but it was with a tiny grin that he immediately banished.

“I would very much like to return to our room so that I may put on  _my_ shirt.” He caught the front panel of the sweater as though meaning to rip it from her that moment. 

“You are  very bold,” she said, walking past him. 

“You are playing with fire, _vhenan_ ,” he called from behind her. “And if I recall, fire is not your natural inclination. Be mindful that it does not burn beyond your control.” 

“I am not the one who started the fire,” she retorted. “Let it burn. It’s cold out anyway.” He chuckled and caught up to her. On the way back, Solas kept close enough that their hands brushed against one another and their hips occasionally bumped. That was as far as it went; out in the open anyone could be watching. Keeping it hidden was in their best interest for many reasons. Yet that did not stop either of them from reaching out with their auras while they walked. Solas draped his about her shoulders and wrapped around her waist in a loving embrace that kept her cheeks rosy as the eglantine he continued to carry with him. Her own aura was more fluid, lapping along his arms and between his shoulderblades, along his neck and jaw until she could feel his body heat through the bond.

With their spirits practically exposed, the two of them immediately picked up on an offness to the air once they’d reached the inner halls of the Ivory Herring. There was a strange tension that had them both withdrawing their auras and immediately fell into the defencive dispositions they normally assumed right before a fight. Arguing was coming from the left toward the Inquisitor’s quarters. She broke away from Solas and went to knock on the door. It swung open to reveal a bedraggled Dorian, impeccable black locks mussed up for once. He’d a cut on his lip and a nice bruise around his eye.

“ _Ma britha aron etunash.”_

“I don’t need a translator to know what that means,” he said wryly, then twisted in the doorway to glance behind him. She caught sight of Cassandra and Commander Cullen talking heatedly to Yin who snapped in rapid Antivan to no one’s comprehension. Dorian stepped out of the room and closed the door, peering down the hall at Solas who was still standing where she’d left him. “Dhrui ran off.” Maordrid’s eyebrows drew down.

“What? Where?” she asked. 

“Surely you heard the little spat? Sera came in through the window hissing and spitting more than usual,” he said, smoothing his hair back. “Threw a crumpled missive on the ground. Dhrui seemed to glean something from her nonsense and left in a fury with Sera.” She wanted to flick the bruise at his eye in frustration.

“And the missive?” she demanded. 

“It didn’t make much sense. Something about a man name Mornay and a massacre that happened years ago,” he said. “This man is going to be executed today in the market—” 

“I knew he was up to something!” Yin’s irate voice came from inside. “He was already on thin ice. Now it’s cracking. He better not have done anything to my sister.” Cassandra’s concerned voice came much quieter than his, followed by Cullen’s own irritated one.

“I will go ahead to find Dhrui,” she told Dorian who nodded. She turned to head back down the hall, head spinning.

“What’s going on?” Solas asked, catching up.

“Dhrui has run off searching for Blackwall,” she explained, hustling down the stairs. “Someone has a date with the hangman, it would seem.” 

Yin caught up soon after they left the inn, yanking his arms through his coat. He looked worse than Dorian with bruises all over his face and a matching split lip.

“What happened to you two?” Solas asked, bewildered. Yin waved him off, too focused on finding his sister to explain. 

“Dhrui said Blackwall came here as part of the search for…us,” Dorian said to Yin. “None of this makes sense.” 

“Is his name Cole, Cassandra, Iron Bull, or Varric?” Yin snapped. “Unless one of those are his first name, he lied.  _He is hiding something._ ” Try as she might, Maordrid could not for the life of her remember Blackwall’s story all those months ago in her original timeline. Whatever it was, it clearly had not been relevant to her mission. Cullen and Cassandra flanked Yin, imposing in their shining armour.

“He and Sera were supposed to come back to Skyhold with me and the troops,” Cullen explained over his shoulder as they walked. “He intercepted that missive and has kept it to himself ever since. I believe he planned to come here all along, but when you all went missing it, it was convenient for him. He slipped away in the night when we were in the Dales—Sera must have followed.”

“Whatever his reasons, this… _Mornay_ means enough to him to disobey orders,” Cassandra added. “It looks bad on the Inquisition. Like our soldiers do not know discipline.” Cullen shot her a sharp look.

“My men  _do_ know discipline,” he argued.

“Leliana and Josephine will not be pleased, regardless,” Cassandra said and Yin agreed grumpily.

“Hm, well my faulty human eyesight may not be as good as you elvish, but I do believe that is our Dalish sprite up ahead?” Dorian said as they were just coming onto the Avenue of Reflective Thought. True to his word, the ashen haired elf was walking quickly along the path, long braid lashing back and forth like a cat’s tail. She vanished at the very end, nearly shoving over an Orlesian that looked a fair bit like a cake with legs. Yin swore and hurried after her, trying to avoid running and making a spectacle.

As they drew closer to the Summer Bazaar, the sounds of a large gathering reached their ears. Immediately a wooden scaffolding came into view, as did three men on top of it. The entire place was crowded with people at this time of day and seemed even worse nearer the executioner stand. Orlesians loved their violence.

“ _Annd_ I lost her,” Yin said, coming to a stop, trying to see over the ridiculous hats and wigs all around them.

“I’m afraid I cannot be of any help!” Maori squeaked, overwhelmed by the amount of bodies. She couldn’t see shit above all the tall people, so she focused instead on keeping Yin in her sights as they pushed through the throng.

“There!” Dorian’s voice called out. Maordrid narrowly avoided being trampled, slamming into the back of a man with a stammered apology before tripping conveniently into Dorian’s back. As she extricated herself from him, they stopped some paces away from where Dhrui was staring up at the scaffolding with her hands pressed to her mouth in horror. Sera was beside her scanning the crowd with a scowl on her face. She spotted Iron Bull’s horned head coming around the towering monument in the centre of the plaza and Varric’s displeased voice over the crowds. While they were struggling to get a better vantage through the high-class rabble, the executioner was already fitting a noose around the neck of a gaunt-looking human standing dejectedly on his feet.

“Ah, human justice,” Solas said with distaste, coming up behind her. 

“All these people…for this?” she said, genuinely aghast. 

“Proceed!” the bailiff cried, stepping away from the prisoner. 

And that was when Blackwall finally showed his face—upon the stand itself, ordering a stop to the entire spectacle.

“This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him,” Blackwall said to the crowd, “Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier. He should not die for that mistake!” The bailiff walked across the platform, sizing Blackwall up.

“Then find me the man who gave the order,” he sneered, accent curling with impatience. Blackwall looked directly into the crowd—right at Dhrui…and Yin.

Maordrid uttered an oath, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“Blackwall!” Yin bellowed, his fury showing as he shoved forward.

“No. I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall.” Maordrid’s stomach sank. “Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years. I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am.” Maori pushed through the crowd, finally reaching Dhrui where she stood. 

“ _Lethallin,_ ” she said, trying to take her hand. The woman stepped away, eyes tearing up.

“Did you know?” Dhrui asked. Before Maordrid could answer, the tears fell. “Did you lie to me?” 

“—I am Thom Rainier.” 

“No! Even if I had known, what could I have said?” Maordrid asked while the crowd was still distracted. “You would have scorned me.” Dhrui looked one more time up at her false Warden now being arrested, heart breaking in her blood-coloured eyes.

“I want to talk to him,” she said. “That bloody fool. Selfish…idiot…” Maordrid drew her into her arms and Dhrui shuddered, throwing her own around her neck. “It’s not your fault. I should have fucking known better,” the Dalish sobbed. Maordrid stroked her hair. 

“I am here for you,  _da’asa’ma’lin_ ,” she said. “I will be nearby.” Dhrui pulled away, eyes red-rimmed. She gave her a brave nod and turned, trailing after Rainier’s escort.

“I’ll be back,” Yin said, popping out of nowhere with Cullen. “I have words for that man.” She let him go, knowing there was nothing she could do this time. Maordrid allowed herself to be swept away by winding crowds, wishing and regretting all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Eman ar eal eral sul ta’vunin?_ (have I been dreaming for two days?)  
>  **Translations**  
>  _Gya'len_ : 'Daring one'  
>  _ghi'lan_ : [guide; teacher]  
>  _len'sila_ : [student]  
>  _gra'ashas_ : [red ladies/roses]  
>  _Ma tel’nuvena em_ : [You do not want me]  
>  _Ma ane ga ar nuvena_ : [You are everything I want]  
>  _Telir ma_ : [Just you]  
>  _Em’an? Saron?_ : [Us? Together?]  
>  _“Halani ghi’la galin. Venemah elvar vir. Sule tela._ : [To help guide one another. To walk the difficult path. Until we cannot.]  
>  _Ame mar_ : [I am yours]  
>  _Ma tarasyl'nin_ : [my storm]  
>  _Ma britha aron etunash._ : You look like shit.
> 
> Note:  
> Here's my offering for this chapter - [Maori + Solas](https://thesaltyhealer.tumblr.com/post/186811247212/the-wolf-and-the-serpent-solas-and-maori-from-my)


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